


Secrets I Have Held In My Heart

by kakashihatake123



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Additional Tags to Be Added, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Targaryen On The Throne
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-04-20 23:47:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 31,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4806779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakashihatake123/pseuds/kakashihatake123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six years it's been since he had last seen her. Six years ago when her cheeks had been pale and her body long and ungainly, hidden beneath layers of northern wool and silk collars. Six years since Lord Eddard Stark...No, he does not want to think about that now. But from the look on her face when she sees him he is sure she has thought of nothing else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Chapter One

Six years it's been since he had last seen her. Six years ago when her cheeks had been pale and her body long and ungainly, hidden beneath layers of northern wool and silk collars. Six years since Lord Eddard Stark...No, he does not want to think about that now. But from the look on her face when she sees him he is sure she has thought of nothing else. 

Jon could remember the calls of their arrival. His stomach had twisted as though it had been run through with a blade, though he was sure this was much more painful. His blood had gone cold as the ice that flaked in his hair as he awaited her in the courtyard and at his sides his hands had tightened into fists.

Sansa sat the horse well, as Ser Jorah had written to inform him, and was helped from the saddle by the aging knight. With his hands on her waist she was lifted from the stiff leather saddle and placed gently on the dark cobblestone path. Jon did not miss the way her knees buckled.

She was greeted triumphantly, with a flourish of trumpets whose sound made her flinch yet smile and the servants and knights that had gathered before the wall of the castle grinned and said their words of welcome.

And then her eyes were upon him.

At the sight of him she smiled and it was though a flame had come to life in a lantern, warmth flooding her pale face with such pleasure that it was his turn for his knees to buckle.  

Sansa Stark moved across the courtyard, the mud crawling up the hem of her skirt up to her knees but she did not seem the slightest bit affected by it. She was so strange and unfamiliar to him that it is almost as though they are speaking a language he had no way of understanding. The soft rocking of her hips, the almost imperceptible movements with which she saw and acknowledged every single person in the corridor, from Maester Tarly at the start of the door to Jon himself at its center. 

At first he had thought that this woman could not be Sansa. Sansa who had had stars in her eyes and ribbons twirling about her fingers and a smile as wide as though Arya had stuffed half a melon in her mouth. But it was her. As soon as she had turned her brilliant smile upon him he had seen her.

Her skin was soft and unblemished as uncut marble but, upon the extension of her arm, he could see an uneven white scar reaching out from beneath the sleeve of her gown. In her crimson hair he saw all the familiarity of the North he had longed for those cold night's at the wall and she wore it in the same style her mother once had, wild and free and crimson as the illuminating candles that dripped wax into their basins. 

Sansa reached him and dropped into a curtsy without being bid and he frowns, seeing the gentility that had been hammered into her shine through.

With sudden and dawning realization he realizes it is all a show, and only when Sansa looks up at him with pleading eyes does he understand. It has been days that she has been in the riding party, without break from the breakneck pace Ser Jorah had set for them in hopes that their arrival to Winterfell would be swift.

She had been able to bathe and don fresh clothes but not take a moment of rest and the weariness on her face is apparent as soon as she meets his eye.

“Lady Sansa.” He greeted. These were words he had never known he would say again. For so long had thought her dead or worse and at the hands of Petyr Baelish she might as well have been dead. At the thought of the man Jon’s jaw tightened exponentially and he had to school his face back into neutrality, taking Sansa’s offered hand and leading her into the warmth of the castle.

“You look weary.” Said Jon, guiding the woman forward. “Your chambers have been readied for your arrival but should you want for anything you need only ask.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Said Sansa.

There was far more he wished to express to her, how he had missed her, how he had longed to see her just once more, how glad he was to see her returned to the walls of Winterfell. But the party of people swarmed at their backs, allowing them little space to breathe, let alone speak informally and they only continued walking until they reached the twin doors at the belly of the castle.

Jon led her to her chambers and as they were ascending the spiral staircase a smile broke out over her face. “Jon.” She breathed. “Are you certain?”

The room was nearly identical to how it had been left nearly six years ago. The walls were a soft yellow, the feather bed replaced and freshly made in cream and gray and the curtains had been pulled open, allowing light to flood the room. If he could remember correctly, that was how Sansa liked it.

The direwolf sigils that had been peeled away were replaced once more when Jon had taken Winterfell and the room was as utterly Northern as the couple that stood within it.

Jon bade Sansa’s ladies in waiting goodbye and as they closed the door behind them he nearly sighed in relief. It had been so long since he had felt at home. Even after he had made his return to Winterfell something had felt ill at ease but now, with Sansa just before him, her eyes wide in merriment and her rosebud mouth pulled into a smile he felt the knot in his belly give before completely disappearing. 

The door had barely pressed shut behind the women before Sansa had turned to him. Her cheeks had flushed pink and her mouth fallen open and to his horror her eyes were wet.

“I am sorry.” He said quickly. “I thought…I thought returning to your chambers would please you.”

She did not respond but crossed the space between them in seconds and laid into his arms. Her head rested against his chest, her arms so tight around his middle that if she had been an enemy Jon was sure he would be on his back in the neck moment. He could feel wetness bleed through his tunic and found she was crying, the small sobs that shook her shoulders moving through him as well.

“I am so sorry, Sansa.” He breathed. His body had gone rigid as a rod and he raised a hand to stroke her hair but thought better of it.

“No.” she said, pulling away just enough to meet his eye. “I missed you Jon.” She said. “I thought…” she tried to blink away the tears that had already betrayed her by spilling out. “I thought you had gone just like them. I thought…”

“Shhh, sweet girl.” He whispered, his arms falling around her middle to pull her closer. He felt foolish for saying the words but they seemed to calm her, a sigh escaping her lips and her shoulders ceasing to shake.

Jon offered the woman the handkerchief from his pocket and she turned her back upon him so she could dab at her pink eyes. “I will leave you to your rest.” Said Jon, holding up his hand when she made to return the handkerchief. “If it would please you, I will have your ladies bring you something to sup on.”

“No.” she said from the doorway of the balcony, having pulled the doors open to allow the breeze to pass through the chamber. She closed her eyes and let the soft winter wind caress her body, the flaps of her cloak flying open like the wings of a bird about to take flight. “I would dine with you, Jon.”

Dinner was a much louder affair than Jon would have liked. Sansa had been traveling for weeks and thought she was nothing less than pleasant Jon knew she would much rather dine privately and quickly, and return to her featherbed as soon as possible.

Many had come from their Northern cities to see Sansa once again return to Winterfell. Toting gifts of cloths and fruits and boxes of freshly iced lemon cakes to lay at the feet of their lady who received every item with a smile and few kind words, well wishing and offering complements on the lusciousness of the fruit or the beauty of the cloth.

Jon watched her with keen interest. As fatigued as Sansa had been by the great journey she had come alive before the people, life roaring within her as hot and bright as flame.

Sitting at Jon’s side at the head of the table he knew that she belonged there. Even more so then he. Sansa was a true Northern lady, the courtesy and kindness instilled by her mother on showcase before her people and Jon could not help but think back to the Lord and Lady of Winterfell and how proud they would be to see their daughter.

The Queen had first heard of Sansa Stark’s presence in the Vale after a serving woman had come to the capital and requested a private council, promising information she would take interest in. As always Jon had accepted the audience in Daenerys’ place but, as soon as the woman had shared the news of Sansa, he had rushed to the Queen’s side.

He could still remember the Queen’s face when she had heard the news. “Petyr Baelish.” Said she, reclining back in the cruel throne she had pried from the hands of the Lannister’s. “What do you know of this man?”

Jon’s frown had been so deep that he feared he might never again smile. “He is the man responsible for Lord Eddard Stark’s death.” He had said through firm, gritted teeth. “He has my sister-“

“Cousin.” Daenerys corrected, as she always did when the habits he had long ago learned surfaced again. “This man Baelish. He is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. If he has taken Lady Sansa under his wing it is for a purpose other than kindness.”

Jon nodded. “I would go to her.”

Daenerys waved a hand. “Baelish will pay for his crimes against your family and mine. I have sent for him to face my justice in the Capital.”

“And if he does not comply to face this justice?” asked Jon.

Her lips quirked into a smile. “Then Aegon will take Viserion to the Eyrie and demand it.”

But Baelish had been too proud to face a coward’s death and had accepted the Queen’s invitation with pride, traveling to King’s Landing in a retinue fit for a high Lord. As soon as his horse had disappeared over the far hill of the Eyrie Sansa had fled, riding to Winterfell with Ser Jorah at a pace not even Jon could have kept.

The party was small and stealthy, moving through forests and along rivers to avoid sight on the Kingsroad, at least until they reached the safety of the North where Sansa was met by several hundred guards from the houses Reed, Umber, Cassel, and Mormont.

Ser Jorah had said that while Sansa had seemed initially overcome by the loyalty of these houses that within moments she had regained her composure and taken these men into her command with as much strength and kindness as her Lord father once had.

Even now Jon could see it in her, watching as she made her way through the people, speaking with such ease and vivacity that it was no wonder she was so loved.

After the meal had concluded Sansa was tired enough to nearly collapse when she pushed back from her chair and stood, swaying on her feet. “Easy.” He whispered, offering his arm for balance. They returned slowly to her chamber, Sansa’s eyes half lidded and drooping further still as they ascended the steps and stood before the door of the apartments.

The guards at the door knew to step away as they gave their goodbyes, the clink of their armor loudly pinging as they moved down the corridor and disappeared.

Sansa’s eyes were Tully blue and bright in the golden light given off by the lantern hanging in the brazier. She watched him as if studying him, her eyes moving across the plains of his face, down across the column of his neck, to the swell of his chest, hidden beneath the cloak he had pinned with the direwolf sigil. Her eyes fell upon the brooch and he felt his chest flutter like it had suddenly been filled with butterflies.

“Sleep well, Sansa.” He said softly.

She looked up at him through light lashes and blinked back fatigue, her eyes red rimmed and misty. Lovely as a painting, she was. Lovely as the mummers had sang of when they moved through the capital to play at Daenerys’ court.

“And you, Jon.” She said, the wrinkles at the corner of her eyes crinkling as she smiled and pressed the door closed behind her.


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Jon had heard rumors; terrible, ghastly things that he wished bore nothing but falsehood. Sansa had been betrothed to Ser Harrold Hardyng; the heir to the Vale should little Robert Arryn fall, which Baelish had long ago seen to.

The rumors had swirled the Seven Kingdoms that Baelish had been personally responsible for the death of both mother and son, pushing Lady Catelyn’s mad sister from the moon door, a circular oculus she had built into the marble of the floor to force out any enemy that might have betrayed her. Poor woman had never even had a moment to see the irony before crashing into the sharp crags of rock beneath. 

Robert Arryn had taken the Stranger’s kiss not a fortnight after. He had always suffered from shaking fits and after the death of his dear mother had succumbed in the middle of the night, with no one but his nurse at his side to guide him. A fair coincidence it was, thought Jon. Especially since the city’s maester had soon fled the city and been later found with vials of fit inducing poisons tucked into his breeches.

“How is she?” asked Samwell Tarly, slipping into Jon’s chamber after he had retired for the night. “Does she require anything? A sleep draught perhaps?”

“Sleep is one comfort she will have tonight.” Said Jon. She had seemed more than happy to return to the chamber she had once occupied, so long ago now but when he thought about it again he wondered if it would sadden her. Years ago the castle was occupied by Starks and friends and now it only contained the ghosts of friends and family she had once known.

Jon often visited the man he had once thought his father in the crypts of Winterfell. When Eddard Stark’s bones had first been laid to rest once more in the North, beside Lady Lyanna, the North had mourned as much as Sansa had but in some ways they were happy to find their Lord once more at peace. If only they had known that within the next few years their Lady Catelyn and Robb Stark would occupy the crypts as well.

As he had done each week Jon descended to the moist stone chamber with only a lantern to lead his way. The space was cold, the hot water that was piped through the castle’s walls not able to reach this low and he brought his cloak tighter around himself as he walked forth, Ghost padding gently behind him, moving forward, stealthily as night himself.

He heard the shuffle of footsteps and his hand fell to the blade at his hip without pause, holding out the torch. The circle of golden light extended passed him to join with another torch just a few feet from him.

“My lady.” He said in surprise, dropping his hand from the pommel of Longclaw. “I’m sorry I thought-“

“I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Sansa said softly. Her face was flushed and tired but even more so it was sad and even as she reached out to nuzzle her palm against Ghost’s head she did not broken eye contact with the statues of her parents and her brother.

“I would have escorted you if you wished to come here.” Said Jon, moving to hang the torch in its cradle beside the statues.

“I did not think you ever came down here.” She said and Jon nodded solemnly. Her voice was rough and half raw from the tears she had forced away as soon as she had heard him approach. “Do you remember when we were children?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “When we would come to visit Lady Lyanna?”

Sansa, Arya, Jon, and Robb had often stolen down these steps in the midst of the night or before the sun had broken the face of the sky at dawn. Looking over his shoulder he could practically see their bodies, Arya proudly leading the way, fighting with Sansa for the first place in the line. Robb and Jon had followed, hefting torches and candles with them.

Each week they had done this thing, replacing the flowers at Lady Lyanna’s feet with fresh ones, placing a fresh feather between the statue’s pinched fingers. Sansa had always tied a ribbon around the lady’s stone hair, tying it in the same way a lady from the North would. Back then she had been too short to reach the head of the statue and she had stood upon Robb’s shoulders to do the task, Jon holding her waist and legs so she would not tumble.

“Yes.” He breathed. He could see the white ribbon around the head of the statue, Sansa’s handy work clear from the intricate, looping tie at the end of the silk fabric. She need not stand on his shoulders any longer, tall enough to reach and lithe enough to catch herself should she lose balance.

Jon remembered the day she had fallen into his arms, her skirt pushed back around her hips, her rose-colored stockings sticking out. Arya had laughed and Robb had yelped in surprise and tried to smooth her gown and Jon had squeezed his eyes closed to protect her decency, though he wished nothing more than to see the sliver of skin between stocking and ankle again, so pure and scandalous as it was.

She looked into her brother’s face with such anguish that Jon felt tears singe his own eyes. Copper haired and pale skinned they were and where Jon and Arya had shared similarities in features Robb and Sansa nearly resembled twins. Close since birth, as Catelyn had told them.

“I felt him.” Sansa whispered, a tear spilling down her cheek. “When he died I…I knew.” Jon looked out at her, wishing he could say something to ease her heart, anything to take her pain. “Before Lady Cersei even told me I knew.”

“She is no lady.” Jon spat furiously. Cersei Lannister was a fair lioness, a bitch if he wished to be cruel.

The Lannisters had fallen as quickly and viciously as they had risen, a downfall sparked by Tywin Lannister’s death at the hand of a set of sharp tipped arrowheads and a chamber pot. Though it had later been unveiled that even had the Old Lion survived this attack he would have perished at the hand of Lord Oberyn Martell, the great Red Viper sneaking trace amounts of poison into his food, the poison strong enough to melt his organs one at a time until nothing but waste remained.

Joffrey Baratheon had been killed as well, though at a different set of hands, and after losing her son and father the golden lioness had gone mad.

When Daenerys had launched the Siege of King’s Landing Cersei Lannister had barred the gates, as though that could stop the onslaught of dragons that approached. But the gates had fallen just as Gray Worm’s spear did, with the Lannister’s at the mercy of the woman they had plotted to kill since her birth.

Jon had seen the fire and anger in his aunt’s eyes as she looked down upon them from the dais in the Red Keep. His doublet was still wet with fresh blood when they had been captured and the weight of the sword at his hip felt double its original weight.

Daenerys had been beautiful, as she always was, the blood red fabric she wore a stark contrast to the black embroidery that had been carefully sewn into the floor length gown. She was a small thing, but regal, and thought she was half the size of the Lady Lannister, ever bone in her body held more honor than a single ounce of Cersei Lannister.

 Cersei had fallen to her knees in a heap of dirty robes and tangled hair, begging that her children should be spared. It if had not been such a blatant and reaching attempt Jon would have found it pathetic.

“Spare you children?” Daenerys had asked, aghast. Her hand had reached out to stroke Ghost’s fur, just as Sansa was before him now. “As you family have spared mine? Your husband sent an assassin to kill my unborn child. Your father conspired to kill my nephew’s family at _a_ _wedding_.”

She had cut her eyes to him as he stood dutifully at her side, watching the mewling woman that had once been so proud. He knew the things she had done to Sansa, thought far from all of them. It had been Cersei who shared the news of Robb’s death, the delivery far from kind. Tyrion had shared that the woman had even laughed and described the way Greywind’s head had been sewn onto Robb’s when his body had been paraded before the Lannister force.

The thought of it had made Jon mad enough to shout and execute the woman right there on the steps of the dais. Daenerys, sensing his discomfort, reached out to take his hand. Her skin was creamy and smooth, though rougher now from holding onto Drogon’s saddle during the siege, and it calmed him, if only just slightly.

Cersei’s daughter, Myrcella Baratheon was being held in Sunspear, under the watchful of the Martell brothers, but her promise of protection was solid and infallible. Tommen Baratheon remained within the walls of the city, having taken sanctuary at the Great Sept of Baelor with his little rose of a wife. As for the remaining Lannisters…

Jon himself had vouched for Lord Tyrion. The Halfman had always been kind to him and from what he had heard, he had given Sansa only kindness when they had first been wedded, but, if Tyrion could be believed, never bedded.

“He is a Lannister.” Daenerys had said, the fire within her spitting. They had retired to her private chambers to argue the man’s fate after Jon had cast her a warning glance when the imp was brought before her throne.

“And I am a Stark.” He returned, quire fiercely. “The house you promised to destroy you now plan to wed.”

“You are a Targaryen.” She said, reaching up to brush his cheek. “Not a Stark.”

But he was a true Stark, whether his blood said this or not. “And you are fierce.” He murmured, running his fingers through her silver hair. “Full of fire, my dragon queen.”

When they returned to the throne they found Cersei had not moved, so red faced that she seemed to blend with the crimson coloured fabric she wore. Even on her knees, begging before a new Queen she was still dressed as proud as a Lannister. “Please.” The Golden Lioness begged. “I would do anything for my family. Anything.”

Daenerys frowned. “So would I.”

And now the trio of Lannister’s awaited their sentence in King’s Landing, where Jon would return soon after Sansa’s arrival. It would be the Lady’s voice that would lead the Lannister’s to their fate, rightfully so, as Sansa had been at their mercy once before and their kindness had not been great.

“I’m sorry.” Jon murmured. “Truly. Robb was my brother.”

He expected her to object, reminding him of the dragon’s blood that coursed through his veins. But instead she nodded, turning to him and taking his hand. “Aye.” She whispered.  “You were a good brother to him.”

“And he was to me.” Jon felt his throat close from the pain of missing the copper haired boy. He had always planned to visit the Lord at Winterfell after he had grown old enough to take his father’s place as Lord Protector of the North. But Tywin Lannister had taken that chance from him, snuffled the flame from a candle before the wax had given way.

“When will we return to King’s Landing?” Sansa asked. She had not released his hand and he could feel its icy coldness against his skin. Her hair had fallen free from its braid and only now Jon realized she had taken the ribbon from her own hair to place around Lyanna’s head.

“As soon as you are able.” Said Jon but he lied.

He would do nearly anything to postpone their journey, knowing full well once he returned to the Capital all the privacy they had been afforded in Winterfell would vanish just as quickly as it started. It had been so long since Jon had seen his sister, had embraced her, had held her hand. He was not willing to give it up so easily now.

“Tyrion was kind to me.” she said. “I do not wish to see him harmed. He could have taken advantage of our marriage. I offered once…offered to prove the validity of our marriage. If only just for my protection. But he refused. Lord Tyrion was kind…he told his Lord Father we had done the deed when we had not.”

Jon nodded. The Imp had spoken true and he was glad for it. He felt foolish to think it but the thought of a man’s hands on Sansa made him furious with anger.

“Lord Jaime as well. After he returned to King’s Landing with Lady Brienne he was different. Changed. As though all the evil he bore had left him with his hand. He promised to protect me, a promise he completed to the best of his ability. I was nearly safe in King’s Landing for a few moons before Joffrey and Margaery’s wedding…”

“What of it?” asked Jon. Her hand had begun to warm within his own, his leather bound fingers. She shivered and without pause he shrugged out of his cloak, unpinning the brooch and sliding the cloak about her thin, shaking shoulders. She was nearly swallowed by the garment, as thought a large, black cloud had descended upon her shoulders.

“Lord Baelish…he stole me away to the Vale.” Said she. “With Lysa and Robin. He posed as my father thought…” she trailed off and Jon knew well enough to not press the subject any further.

When she did not speak again, her eyes looking out into the distance, seemingly lost in thought, it was his turn to speak. “I will escort you to your chamber. Hopefully you will stay there this time.” He teased.

A smile cracked across her face and when she looked up at him he felt the air force from his lungs as thought he had taken a blow to the gut.

They walked to the chamber for a second time in as much silence as the first time, though Sansa’s presence at his side was a comfort, one that did not have to be interrupted with meaningless pleasantries.

“Good night, Jon.” she said for a second time. “Thank you. For everything. Thank you for bringing me back here. Thank you for…” she trailed off, another tear falling down her pale cheek. Instead of continuing she just embraced him, her arms wrapping about his middle and pulling him flush against her.

It was a perfect moment in the midst of an imperfect time. But for some reason Jon just couldn’t bring himself to think about the misery and war and plague that continued around him, for he only wanted to think of Sansa and the smell of the lavender water in her hair and the feel of her body, warm and soft, against his. It was all he had dreamed of for so long.


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Sansa Stark awoke the next morning to the shutters of her chamber rattling hard enough to shock her into wakefulness. She sat up straight in her bed, slamming her head into the post of the bed and letting out a shout of alarm. Her legs twisted in the blankets, making it difficult for her to rise.

One of her ladies maids came running, pulling away the blankets and schooling her lady back into the bed. “My lady!” she said. “Calm my lady. It is only Prince Aegon on the green beast.”

“The green…” she trailed off. Of course she had heard these rumors. She would have had to have been living beneath a rock to not have heard them. Daenerys and her dragons come to Westeros after the years she had planned and plotted and waited. It was the stuff of legends and great mummer’s songs.

And with her the Silver Haired Queen had brought three dragons. The great black beast she rode herself, the saddle made of flame and lightning and the skins of the men she had defeated in battle, or so it was said. The green dragon belonged to that of Aegon VI Targaryen, the nephew of Daenerys and the brother of Jon.

And Jon…the crimson winged dragon was his. In her tower at the Vale Sansa had oft dreamed of how this view might look, Jon with his great silver sword in his hand and the direwolf sigil etched upon the plait of his breast. It was the image she had often wished to see when she had been trapped within the walls of the Red Keep like a dog kept too long in a kennel, itching for freedom, if even just to stretch her legs.

She should like to see him ride this beast this…dragon. She could watch him every day, all hours of the day. If only he should allow her.

She felt foolish to think of it now, how greatly she had desired Jon Snow’s protection and his rescue those nights she had spent on her knees before the window, praying to any of the Seven or the New Gods or the Great Stallion or any of the many Gods who would hear her cries.

And the Gods had heard her, had spirited her away on ships and seas until she reached the stony crags of the Eyrie where one evil was replaced with another. The Gods had traded Joffrey for Petyr, the wounds his hands left on her mental instead of physical, as Joffrey's had done. Never had he touched her in the ways his eyes had told her he desired to do but he had still touched her in intimate ways, pressed his nose to her hair and smelled, pressed his lips to hers and swirled his tongue, pressed his hand to her breast and squeezed, ran her finger across the cold swell of her nipple.

The ladies had rushed to the window, throwing open the shutters and watching as the young prince descended from his saddle. He was as silver haired as his aunt, his skin pale as marble and slightly pink from the glare of the sun. He was as beautiful as the rest of them and quite as regal, stepping out of the stirrup with a flourish.

He turned suddenly to look up at them, as thought he had heard the ladies giggling and his eyes caught the red smudge that was Sansa, high enough in the tower that though he could not see the details of her face he knew her beauty.

She bathed and dressed for breakfast in silence, holding her knees to her chest as she sat in the warm bathwater. She had had no ladies for years and had quickly forgotten what it felt like to be waited on. There was soft spoken Pia, the poor, broken toothed girl that Jaime Lannister had taken pity on and sent to Winterfell to marry one of the Northern Lords and even Jeyne Poole, the girl she had known so long ago. 

When she entered the dining hall Jon rose instinctively, the sound of the legs of his chair against the wooden floor jarring as it echoed around the room. He smiled at her and Aegon looked at him as thought Jon had suddenly sprouted a lion’s mane in place of his dark hair.

“What a lady this must be to make you smile so, my lord.” Said the white haired boy.

Jon said nothing but did not let the smile slip from his face, welcoming her with the typical greeting. “My lady.” Said he.

Jeyne Poole had laid the golden circlet over her head after she had donned the deep purple gown she now wore and as she entered the room Jon couldn’t help but stare, thinking she looked the Lady of Winterfell now more than ever.

By right Winterfell was hers, though Jon had been made Lord in her absence. But after he would wed Daenerys he would move to King’s Landing, the city he had spent so many years evading and Winterfell would be free for Sansa. In the recesses of his mind he imagined ruling Winterfell at Sansa’s side but decisively pushed the thought from his mind.

“Lady Sansa.” He said formally, hoping the distinction would force him only to think of her as she was instead of as he wished her to be. “My brother, Prince Aegon Targaryen.”

Sansa curtsied delicately, the motion seeming effortless. “It is a pleasure, your grace.” 

It was clear Sansa had experience with royalty; for the way she spoke softly yet strongly was enough to make any man seem important, let alone a royal man. But Jon knew she cared little for titles and crowns and thrones. This copper haired girl only wanted peace, and so Jon would give it.

“The pleasure is mine, Lady.” He replied. The boy was young and green but his eyes were bright enough to see a beautiful woman before him. He had already fallen half in love with many women on the journey from Essos to Westeros. “Will you dine with us?”

“If you will have me.” she said easily, sitting in the seat Jon pulled out for her.

They broke bread and cheese and shared honeyed wine before the flickering firelight, the sun half hidden behind fog and clouds and sending little light to warm the northern plains. Rhaegal flew proudly in warm, wet weather, though to Aegon it proved difficult.

From so high there was little air and vast cold, ice sneaking its way into his lungs with every breath. He clung to the saddle before he had himself lashed to it with heavy leather straps about his middle and legs. When he had first arrived early in the morning, before the sun had even risen, Aegon had come bundled as if from the Wall, so tightly wrapped in furs that he resembled a coat rack.

After they finished their meal Aegon jumped at the chance to impress Sansa, offering instantly the chance to show her Rhaegal, who had been allowed to fly free over the city.

Aegon had expected her to cower and run, like all the other women had, but Jon had not. He watched in smug, satisfaction, as Sansa did not even flinch as she stood before the green beast.

“And what of you?” she asked afterward. “Will you show me your dragon, Jon Snow?”

Her eyes flickered for a moment and he could have sworn he saw something within them that made his stomach jump. But no she was a lady she could not mean….

After Aegon’s fitful laughter had died down she spoke again. "When will we leave for King's Landing?" Sansa had taken a few paces back from Rhaegal for this conversation and now sat looking fiercely at him. She had let her hair down today, he noticed, the crimson wave framing her pale face and running across her shoulders. It only added to her passion. 

Jon frowned and gave her a hard look. "Aegon delivered a message from the Queen, she advises we arrive as soon as possible. If you are able I should like to leave before the week ends.”

He had expected argument, dissent, any response other than the one she gave. "I am ready." she said with a nod. Jon knew she had not returned to the Capital since her escape with Littlefinger. He wondered what memories the trip would conjure for her.

Looking at her he saw her eyes flicker, her facade crack just enough to let a sliver of sadness through. Jon was glad that Aegon had meandered away to speak to the stable master’s daughter, leaving Jon the opportunity to reach out to take her hand and squeeze her slim fingers gently, just for a moment, just to assure her. "Would that I could make them all suffer." he whispered.

"I don't want to go." she whispered, her eyes staring down at her feet. "I don't want to leave you, Jon. You are the only family I have." 

He squeezed her hand again but did not meet her eyes, let he be lost in them. "Stay with me." he said. "In the Capital for as long as you wish it I shall have you. You will want for nothing, I swear it by the Old Gods and the New." 

She smiled weakly, lifting his hand to her lips and kissing it. The gesture drove him half mad, the warmth from her mouth showing even through the leather gloves he wore. "I cannot." she said. "Winterfell awaits me."

"Aye." said Jon. Her lips were soft as pillow and sheet, pink and puckered and dying for the feel of his mouth. "Aye." he repeated, at a complete loss for words.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who have left disgruntled comments please note this is primarily a Jon/Sansa fic. I am sorry if the tags misled you into thinking it would be something other than what it is but this is really the direction I wanted to take it. I'm sorry to disappoint you and I hope you will continue to read but if not I'm glad you clicked on this fic in the first place and I hope you find the fic you were looking for elsewhere!

Chapter Four

By the time Jon met Sansa in the Godswood Aegon and Rhaegal had long ago set to flight and were probably halfway back to King's Landing, if the weather was favorable, and they were left to their solitude.

The Godswood had always been a place of solace for Jon just as it had always been for Lord Stark and now, as he sat beside Sansa on the long ebon bench, just as the Lord and Lady of Winterfell once had, he was struck with the image of he and Sansa in their places. 

Sansa even had the look of Catelyn stark, with her crimson hair and Tully blue eyes but without the severity of her hollowed cheekbones and long, angular neck. And Jon had always had Ned Stark's look about him, broad shouldered and dark haired and succinct. Years ago he would have loved to rule Winterfell with Lady Sansa at his side but now...

To rule all of Westeros was a gift, as Daenerys had always said. She had fought with fire and blood and bone and gold to get to the throne. Jon had always felt like an outsider because of this. He had not been with the Queen since she had first taken interest in ruling as her father had. He had not seen her through Meereen and dragons and plague and butchery. He had only met with her six months ago, pulled from the wall by her hand after he had begun his search for Sansa and Arya. 

He had always heard the rumors of his true blood. On the Wall they had always teased and jested, calling him Lord Snow or even Lord Commander Targaryen towards the end. But it wasn’t until Daenerys that he truly believed it.

She had said she was as skeptical as he, asking what he wanted, asking why he had thrown his name into the ring for claim to the throne. When he had replied he wanted nothing, not even the great Iron Throne she sat upon, her eyes had narrowed and her chin raised, an expression she now knew meant she was half skeptical and half intrigued by what he was saying.

He said he had only accepted her invitation so that he may see if these rumors held any water. She said she was unsure. She said it was quite possible that Jon was Lady Lyanna’s son with her brother. She said she had already found one relative and now another and at this rate there would be seven Targaryen’s in the world within the year. He said again he wanted nothing from her.

She had then risen from her throne as regally as she always had, swept her long white skirt from her feet, and descended the steps of the dais, bidding he follow her.

At the time he had felt his stomach sink with the weight of discomfort, wishing to return to the search for his sister’s instead of walking further into the belly of the Red Keep.

They had come to a room dark enough and wide enough to house an armies sleeping barrack and it was only when the door had begun to scrape close did he hear movement. To his shock he had found himself in the hall where Dany’s dragons retired after spending the days hunting or flying over the Kingdoms.

Several guards stood before the door to prevent he would not flee at the sight of them and Dany’s violet eyes kept him solid in his place, hot and cold simultaneously rushing over his body.

The dragon he now knew as Viserion had uncurled itself and began to move forward, the shift of scales and grinding of talon’s against the stone ground loud as grating rocks. He had become frozen with fear, his booted feat pressed to the ground as though they had been run through with nails.

He would die here. He had always thought he would die on the battlefield or on the wall, sword in hand and fire in his heart, but instead he would die here, without Sansa or Arya, without dignity, in the depths of a city he could not stand, at the hands of a stranger.

But instead of dying on that day, Jon instead found new life. Viserion had taken to him instantly, the great crimson beast standing before him still as a statue. And just as the rumors had said of the bond between Daenerys and Drogon, Jon had linked himself to Viserion.

It was only a few days later he flew for the first time, gripping onto the leather saddle for dear life as Viserion launched into the air and flew at a breakneck pace. Dany had flown with him, her arms wrapped around his middle, both for balance and for comfort. They had spent many days together over the course of a fortnight and somehow during that time period he had developed a fondness for the silver haired queen that he had not expected.

To call it love would be as false as calling it friendship. They were certainly fond of each other, spending many days and nights at each other’s side. It had become noticed by others as well, especially the High Lords and Ladies that desired the throne for their son’s. But all at once a proposition had been made and they were betrothed, to be married when the ice turned to water and the spring had fully set in.

He felt sick with guilt for thinking this now. For thinking that he would be happier at Sansa’s side instead of Dany’s. What would Sansa say if she could read his mind and knew he was lusting after her? Lusting after the girl he had been raised to call his sister.

He supposed he was not devastated to find the truth about his birth. Lady Stark had never been the kindest woman in the world to him but Lord Stark had always been a good man. A good father to Jon.

Jon wondered if he would make a good father. One day his children would rule the Seven Kingdoms as Kings or Queens and they would rule over the people Jon had given years to protect. How he reared them would reflect in the way they ruled the kingdoms.

He had no doubt in his mind Sansa would make a wonderful mother. She would teach her children how to be kind and courteous but fierce, just as their Lady Mother had been.

“What are you thinking of, Jon?” Sansa asked. “I lost you for a moment there.”

His face reddened bright as flame. “I was thinking.” He said vaguely, hoping and knowing she would not ask more.

“As was I.” she said.

She looked down at their feet, the bright red leaves of the Heart tree peppering the snow covered grass beneath. The Godswood always made her sad, yet hopeful. Sad because it made her remember her parents, hopeful because it made her feel closer to the Gods. It had been months since she had prayed after having given up on the Gods for their allowance of the cruelty that took place within the great Red Keep.

“I miss them.” he murmured.

Her eyes flicked towards him. “As do I.” she repeated, covering his hand with hers. “When you wrote…I couldn’t believe it. I thought it was a farce. I thought it was someone trying to lure me to them…”

“I’m only sorry I wasn’t there sooner. I could have protected you…I could have done something, Sansa.”

“Is it true?” she asked. “My ladies said…are you truly to marry Lady Daenerys?”

“Yes.” He said with a firm nod.

“You will make a good King.” She said after a moment passed. “A just King. Just as my father was a good Hand.”

“Dany is considering Ser Jorah as Hand. He has always served her well in the past…despite certain setbacks.” Jon said, feeling uncomfortable at the fact that he had called his betrothed by her pet name instead of her full, queenly name.”

“Ser Jorah is a good man. He was kind to me during out journey. He made sure I was safe and comfortable at all times. Sometimes he even told stories of the Queen.”

“Did he?” asked Jon.

They regaled stories for the next hour, about the queen, about Sansa’s time at the Eyrie and in King’s Landing, about Jon’s days at the wall. They talked for so long that by the time they had finished they were famished with hunger and the sun had long ago set, the servants crossing the Godswood to light the hanging lanterns and torches.

They dined privately in Jon’s solar. Sansa had asked why Jon had not occupied Robb’s old room or even the room of Eddard Stark but Jon replied he just could not. He missed them so much already that the thought of seeing their possessions made him sad enough to be sick.

Sharing honeyed Dornish wine and salted mutton with potatoes and carrots was not only filling physically but also emotionally. With Sansa Jon had a constant companion, whether they spoke or not her presence was noticeable and without her he felt as though he had become half a man again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!


	5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five

It was three days that passed like this before they made ready to ride for King’s Landing. Jon had offered to fashion a litter for Sansa but she had declined, promising she could sit her horse as well as any man. And she made true to her promise as they began their journey, the pace on their first day slow but steady and without breaks both riders quickly grew tired.

They made camp along the Neck, pitching small, silken tents along the grass and snow, hoping the sun would not be hot enough to turn the dirt to mud. They rode a few days more without event, the actual task of riding quite monotonous had it not been for the conversations Jon had kept up with Sansa.

During the nights the guardsmen they rode with kept them quite entertained with bawdy ballads and dances. The wine flowed like rain after a flood and the knights soon became red faced and jolly, asking for Sansa’s hand every chance they got.

She was good sport, Jon noted. Her tolerance for wine was high for she never grew drunk only joyful, dancing with these knights in close quarters and even once or twice singing for them and encouraging Jon to do so as well.

As Ser Yorick sang a quiet ballad about a royal lady who wore yellow roses woven into her hair Sansa offered her hand for Jon to take and even he was surprised to find that he accepted it. Perhaps she had cast a spell upon him. After so long on the wall with Lord Stannis and his Red Witch he was sure his belief in magic had changed. There was neither rhyme nor reason for the esteem he held for this copper haired girl, her slippered feet kicking up small tufts of dirt as he spun her.

Soon enough the song had turned to something jolly and once more Jon had to fight for her hand, Sansa moving gently between four of the knights like wind through leaves. Her face had flushed pink with happiness and pleasure, her hands and feet moving as gracefully as a forest elk as she regaled the dances he had once seen her practicing in the lower levels of Winterfell.

He had never told her that he saw her in such a way for she would have been far too embarrassed at the thought of him watching her, especially after he had watched her for so long.

After her return to Winterfell Sansa had sent his mind spiraling back in time to the days where they were all young children in the Northern Castle, bothering Lady Catelyn so greatly that they were forced outside, lest their shouts of merriment interrupt Lord Eddard’s court. Sansa had always been a lady, just as her mother had taught her, often mimicking many of Lady Stark’s behaviors. Unfortunately for Jon that also meant her offhand treatment of him.

But even still Sansa had always been kind. There had been soft looks and pleasant smiles that passed between them. Sansa’s nimble fingers had mended his torn tunics when Lady Catelyn had not. Sansa had been the one to embrace Jon when he had torn his knee after he had fallen from a tree in the Godswood and scraped the flesh nearly to the bone, allowing he lean on her as they hobbled to Maester Luwin. Jon had always known she was only obeying her mother’s wishes, but the wound of ignorance still stung him.

It was only when they passed the Twin’s that Sansa’s joy faded and Jon’s along with it. In their hearts they could still hear the anguished screams of Robb and Catelyn Stark that the Lannister paid mummers wrote of in their conquering songs. The thud of arrows ricocheting against stone and pavement. The laughs of Walder Frey when the doors had first been sealed with the only family Jon had even known still within the dining hall.

The rest of the riding party did their best to cheer their Lord but did not push passed the bounds of propriety and for that Jon was thankful. Even the Gods seemed to suffer from this journey for the snow began to fall heavier as the storms increased in magnitude. Their horses were breathless by the middle of the day from pushing through the snow and they were forced to stop often to rest the stallions and rest themselves, the meager rations they had brought not enough to sate their appetites.

Jon boiled a pot of Dornish wine, stirring the crimson liquid in hopes that it would keep a warm flame burning in their stomachs. Sansa was bundled so tightly Jon could not see much of her face except the red of her hair above the fur collar. Even so far from the North she had remembered exactly how to tie the collars and scarves to keep her chest and neck braced against the cold that slipped through the cotton of her tunic.

The next hurdle they passed was the Eyrie, thought Jon could not share her pain on that account. He only wished he knew the trouble she had suffered at the hand of Mad Lysa Tully and at the grubby, grasping fingers of Petyr Baelish. Then again, as Dany had said, perhaps it was a good thing he did not, else he would not be just in his decisions, as a good King should.

Jon was sure Sansa had not spoken for three days straight when they rode alongside the Green Fork on the Kingsroad. The rocks and gray crags of stone were familiar and with her eyes Sansa traced the path through them until she knew she would reach the Bloody Gate.

She tried not to remember how many times she had taken this path but could not, her stomach twisting into knots and tangles at the thought of Baelish sitting just behind her in the rowing boat, so close that his warm, lemony breath was like dragon fire on the back of her neck. She tried not to remember the filmy feel of his hands on her shoulders or her waist, the way no true father would ever hold his daughter. She certainly tried not to think of the feel of his rough, chapped lips on hers, pushing her backward until she was flat against the wall and she had no where else to turn to, her only option to squeeze closed her eyes and wait for the man to be finished with his pleasure.

Jon knew if they strayed much longer Daenerys was like to send Aegon once more to hurry them along and he set the pace at one that, while at first had seemed easy to maintain, became soon intolerable and led to saddle sickness and the sore bottoms of all riders.

His prayers were answered soon enough for they reached the Trident and as it would take a day to cross the turbulent waters of the river they would not be riding.

The small boat rocked fiercely as it made their way towards the shore to pick up the riding party. Sansa’s hands shook as she balled them into fists at her sides, squeezing until her fingernails left crescent marks on her palms.

All too well she remembered her last sea journey, though she had been escaping King’s Landing in fear then instead of returning in glory. But at her side she saw Jon instead of Baelish and his hands were firm at his sides instead of groping, his mouth closed instead of trying to pry hers open. And he was familiar and safe and Sansa knew he would never intentionally lead her into danger.

Sansa was thankful for the opportunity to rest while they sailed and spent much of the time in her cabin instead of conversing with any of the sailors of even Jon. Her cousin often visited, bringing meals and stories and once even a song, in an attempt to cheer her.

“I promise it will be well worth the journey.” Said Jon. “Daenerys has done remarkable things to the city.”

“So I have heard.” Said Sansa.

“What troubles you?” asked Jon, noting her furrowed brow.

“I am only nervous the queen will ask too much of me…and…I fear she will put as much blame upon my shoulders as she has upon Lord Baelish’s. I too have been accused of the murders of Joffrey Baratheon and Lysa Tully. I too fled the scene and escaped to another city. I look as guilty Baelish and yet I am to judge whether he lives or dies.”

Jon frowned. “Did you poison Joffrey Baratheon?” he asked firmly.

“No.” she said. Her face had not shifted even a centimeter as she spoke, the tell tale signs of a lie not showing through. “Nor did I have anything to do with the death of my aunt or her Sweetrobin. I only watched Baelish push her from the moon door after she had…”

He waited for her to continue, her brow dipping in anger. “She had threatened to do the same to me.”

“How could she do such a thing?”

“Lady Lysa was a troubled woman…she had seen Lord Baelish kiss me in the winter garden and thought I was trying to spirit him away from her. But I wasn’t. Jon I swear by all the Gods in the Seven Kingdom’s I wanted nothing from him but my safety. She was trying to scare me…or she was as mad as they say and was trying to push me through the door. But Baelish talked her out of it. He always had that way about him, he could talk anybody out of anything. But even when she said she had forgiven me. Even when she was embracing him and smiling like a fool he pushed her…I can still remember her screams.”

Jon shook his head. “I wish…I would give anything to return back to the day Lord Stark was summoned by King Robert and plead with him not to go.”

“As would I.” said Sansa. “Though you would still have gone to the Wall.”

“I was a bastard.”

“You were a Stark, whether in title or bond or blood.” She said firmly, her voice cool and even. “And now you are a Targaryen.”

“Aye.” Said Jon Targaryen. “But I will never forget the Starks. The very best people I have ever known.”

“You have little love for my Lady Mother and for that I do not blame you.” Said Sansa. “She shamed us by her treatment of you. Once Cersei Lannister told me of a day they had spoken when my mother expressed regret for how she spoke and acted towards you. She said she was only a jealous women. But still a cruel woman to you, Jon.”

“A motherless child.” He whispered. His eyes flicked up to her, shocked to find he had said these private, shielded words aloud.

She looked at him for a few moments, her eyes sweeping across his face from chin to brow before reaching out a hand to continue where her eyes could not. Her fingers were cold as ice but softer still, moving to cup his cheek. Tilting his head to the side he rested his cheek in her palm, her silk skin feeling the course stubble he had yet to shave away.

“We are both motherless children now, Jon Snow…” she whispered. It had been so long since he had heard that name. For so many years he had hated it, spat at it, repressed it. But now, hearing it was almost the same being called a pet name by an old friend and he smiled slightly, the corner of his mouth brushing her smooth palm.

He turned his head until his mouth was pressed against the crescent of her palm and pressed a soft kiss there, feeling the flare of his breath reflected back upon him. Next came her wrist, cradled in his hand like a fragile bird. The pump of blood beneath the pale skin only grew stronger as her nervousness elevated and he kissed here too. Kissed each of the purplish veins and the soft, hairless skin on the inside of her arm, all the way up to the crook of her elbow.

 When his mouth reached here she let out a soft breath, half shocked, half blissfully pleased. But the sound seemed to wake him from his trance and he rose to his feet so fast that he sent her chair flying backwards, barely managing to catch it before she his the ground like a sack of flour.

“I-“ she began as he righted her chair quickly.

He shook his head and rushed through the door, sick to his stomach with guilt, a feeling that grew stronger still at the fact that he did not feel guilty. No…he felt right. He felt as though for the first time in many years, since he and Robb and Theon had played knights within the gates of Winterfell or when he had laid down upon Ygritte’s snow spattered furs that he was actually in a place her very much belonged.


	6. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

Sansa lay in bed shaking like in as hard as leaf during a summer storm, her blood run cold. She had eaten only a meager portion of her supper. She had sat at the edge of the fire while Ser Dudley rotated the spit of the gray hare he had trapped, watching the grease and gristle drop into the flames with a hiss and even though the rabbit had been skinned the smell of burning fur was almost too much for her stomach to bear.

She had eaten only so the men would not protest, stomaching little of the meat and even the potatoes she herself had peeled and boiled for the meal and as the men went on with their merriment and chatter she found her desire for rest only growing steeper by the minute.

Her head felt as thought it weighed twenty stone, the wine she had drank leaving a trail of fire down her throat and into her belly.

Sansa retired to her tent after she had finished eating and contemplated whether or not she should sleep in her riding clothes or change. Her fatigue only grew as she shed her riding trousers and boots and slipped the gown over her head, crawling onto the hard cot and hefting the blankets along with her.

The furs and cotton blankets did little to stave off the chill and she shivered so deeply she was sure her heart must have been stuttering in her chest. They had passed the Vale long ago but her nervousness had not gone with it and each time she closed her eyes she could see the rocks and the moon door and even the man who had promised to protect her and failed.

A sharp, icy breeze rolled through the tent and she jolted from its force, the tickle of fur on her face surprising her. Sansa sat stock straight on her cot, turning sharply to the doorway.

“I’m sorry.” Jon said. In the darkness he looked fearsome as a giant, dressed in all black and enveloped in the low light of night. Only half of his face was visible in the silver sliver of moonlight that spilled in through the crack in the flap of the tent.

She had snuffed out the candle that lit her path through the small tent and as he dropped the linen cloth she could see only darkness. Her ears picked up the rustle of footsteps as he moved forward, the crunch of snow and grass barely audible over the bawdy conversations of men outside the tent.

The hard cot shifted and creaked with the weight of another body as Jon sat at her side, so close that she could smell the wine on his breath. He breathed out lightly, the warmth of his breath smoking in the air and making gooseflesh appear on her arms and a tingle in her belly. It was as thought the full effect of the wine had only appeared until now.

Her arm rose to rest upon his, her hand falling against the back of his neck. Sansa’s fingers curled into his dark hair, closing into fists as he moved closer to her, one arm wrapping around her middle and pulling her still closer until soon she was pulled into his lap.

His breath against her cheek was hot as dragon fire, melting away her trepidations in just the same way and his eyes were dark as dying coals but deeper than her words could describe, staring into her eyes as though seeking something.

“We could run.” He whispered. “Flee to Essos. To Volantis. To Qarth.”

“Shh, sweet boy.” She pressed a finger to his lip, feeling the softness of his skin against the pad of her finger. “’Our lives are not our own.’” She whispered.

She continued. “Lord Baelish once told me thus. We live our lives for others.” He paused, considering and looked up at her fondly. “You are to be King of the Seven Kingdoms. A good, just king. A King who can do much greater good with a crown upon his brow than with a northern ring upon his finger.”

“I never wanted to be King.” He whispered. “I only wanted you.”

Her eyes were ice and fire and they sent jolts through him, her arms moving to encircle his neck and pull him flush against her. Her nightshirt was thin and flimsy and from so close an angle he could feel every curve of her beneath it. He could even feel the beat of her heart, the heart he was sure possessed his.

“And I you,” she whispered. “King Jon.”

A ripple passed through him. “Say it again.” he growled.

Her lips pressed against his jaw, his chin, his cheek. “King Jon.” for every word she spoke her lips mimicked the movement, words dissipating in the darkness. “King Jon.”

Sansa’s lips were cold but his were warm and the temperatures soon mingled just as their tongues did, turning about each other like fishes in a ravine. Within his arms she felt as though she would never falter. His palm held her face, cupping her cheek in support.

For all he desired her he would not shame her and made no motion to move passed their kiss. “Will you lay with me your majesty?” She growled lustily, her fingers closing around the lapels of his collar.

“Aye, Lady Stark.” Said Jon.

Sansa curled into his arms like a kitten, her toes cold against his shins and her head resting against his chest. He swung the furs around them, careful to cover every inch of their bodies lest she start shaking again. He would not allow her to catch a chill, not on his watch.

She slept peacefully and easily, waking only in the morning to the sound of shouting. Jumping from her bed and dressing quickly she was nearly knocked over by the sudden gusts of wind that picked up in the air but even without asking she knew Aegon had arrived.

The screech of dragons had become somewhat familiar to her ears and the flap of wings as the beast landed a little ways off from their camp made wind strong enough to knock her into the dirt and scare away the horses.

Sansa finished dressing and strode from the tent expecting to find Jon’s silver haired brother but instead found a different creature. The dragon had scales dark as onyx and large yellow eyes, turning at the sound of approaching footsteps and facing Sansa as though she were intruding upon its territory. And as she soon found, the dragon was as fearsome as its rider.

Queen Daenerys was a small thing but no less fierce because of it. Her hair was silver-gold and long enough for the plait it had been twisted in to hang passed her waist and her eyes were as violet as spring flowers. They were shocking in color and in contents and as the queen met Sansa’s eyes she found her heart jumped into her throat.

She was beautiful, the sort of beauty that left their guards marveling after her as she walked towards Sansa and took her hands. And when she smiled her beauty only increased.

“My Lady Sansa.” Daenerys Targaryen grinned. She was a head shorter than Sansa but similar in build, the curves of her body visible through the thin gown she wore. It was Meereenese in style, the fabric thin and flowing and even in the shockingly cold winter air she did not shiver.

“Your majesty.” Sansa gave a deep curtsy, holding the woman’s hand delicately.

“You need not curtsy.” Said Daenerys with another smile. “I feel as though we are friends already for I have heard so much of you from my nephews. They are both quite taken with you.”

Sansa felt her mouth grow dry but gave no indication of this, so at ease with royalty that Daenerys had not even seen a moment of hesitation in her. 

She supposed she could thank her many years in King’s Landing and Cersei Lannister’s rudeness for this easiness. The great Lioness had made it her pastime to torment Sansa by trying to make her as ill as ease as possible and before Sansa had learned to shield her true thoughts and feelings this had worked. But while Cersei had only been trying to be cruel she had ended up bestowing a great kindness upon Sansa for if she had not learned to armor herself in courtesy and kindness, she would surely have fallen prey to Joffrey or Petyr Baelish long before now.

“And I you, your grace. I have heard much of your triumphs in the Capital.” Sansa replied.

“You need not be so courteous with me, lady.” Said Daenerys. She had threaded their arms together and as they walked forward they seemed an awe-inspiring duo. “Will you walk with me?”

“Of course, your grace.”

They moved through the camp and along the trees that occupied much of the lands around them. The Crownlands were ripe with these trees, luscious and leafy even in the midst of winter.

“Sansa, if I may address you as such.” Daenerys began. “I have heard much about your struggles. I am sure I cannot fully feel your pain but I was once in the same position as you. My brother Viserys sold my hand in marriage to a man twice my age, a stranger to me. Though I came to love him very much I was once afraid of him. He was quite…rough with me.”

Sansa turned to look at her, her brows rising. “You mean…”

“Yes, Sansa.” Said Daenerys. “What you suffered in King’s Landing I cannot begin to understand but as for Lord Baelish…I can understand what it is like to be mistreated and frightened.”

“I cannot imagine you would be frightened of anything, your grace.” Sansa said with a laugh. “You are as fearsome as any enemy I have encountered.”

Daenerys smiled brightly. “You are sweet. I am glad the Lannister’s did not pry that from you.”

“At first they did.” Sansa admitted. “I was a prisoner in their city, just as they are now. I will not bore you with-“

“You would never bore me, lady.” insisted the silver haired woman. “I would not push you to tell me of your troubles but should you choose to I can more fully decide what is to be their punishment.”

“King Joffrey was…his humor was sadistic and cruel at best. Lord Tyrion once told me he butchered his brother’s kittens and lay the body before his father. To impress him.” Daenerys brow had furrowed deeply at these words. “He took pleasure in my pain and sorrow. After my father…he had my father’s head on a spike at the castle walls and often took me to look upon it.”

“My sweet girl.” Said Dany, frowning. “It pains me to hear you suffered so greatly at his hand.”

“He is dead.” Said Sansa. “And for that I feel no regret nor misfortune and though I did not kill him I cannot help but wish I had. Am I terrible for thinking so?”

“No.” said Dany. “If I were you I would spit on his grave. Even dance upon it.”

Sansa smiled and squeezed her hand fondly. The silver haired queen had a way about her. There was an ease that balanced the strength and fire that she so clearly possessed and made her easily accessible, even friendly to the naked eye. It was the same ease and happiness that Margaery Tyrell had once exuded. The same ease that had made her one of the most powerful women in Westeros.

“Please continue.” Instructed the queen.  “If you will.”

“Lord Tywin was never cruel to me directly.” Said Sansa. “But he was the one to give the order to Walder Frey. My mother and brother…”

Her eyes were stinging, her cheeks burning and even though she tried to hold them back she felt the tears pricking her eyes like acid. The whisper of the trees reminded her of them, of the days her mother had shared stories of the Riverlands.

“Sweet girl.” Dany frowned, her face sad.

It was the same words Margaery Tyrell had once whispered to Sansa in the gardens of King’s Landing, promising she would escape to Highgarden. Daenerys lifted a hand to wipe the tear from her face and stood upon her toes to kiss Sansa’s cheek, her lips tasting the salt the tear had left behind.

“You are kind to me, your majesty.” Said Sansa, brushing back her hair over her shoulder before righting her furs. The wind blew long and cold through the trees and into Sansa’s very bones but through the cold was shocking it was welcome, her northern spirit flaring within her. “In that I see the songs were not wrong.”

“Ah yes. The songs.” Dany giggled. “They say I breathe fire and have scales running down my back.”

“And your eyes are the same as a cat’s.” Sansa laughed. “Yellow and slit-like.”

The women shared a much needed laugh as the turned to return to the camp. “Will you stay long in King’s Landing?” asked Daenerys. “If you would stay for the wedding I would be pleased to have you in the wedding party.”

The words made a knife twist in Sansa’s belly. At the lady’s courtesy she felt sick with guilt as she remembered the words she and Jon had exchanged the night before. “If it would please your grace.” Said Sansa.

“I would not ask anything that you would not like Sansa.” Said she, suddenly serious. “I wish us to be friends. Friends do not command each other to do things they would not wish. I would love for you to stay in the Capital but force you to do so I will not.”

Sansa smiled and gave a wry curtsy. “I would accept your invitation with happiness, your grace.”

“And as for the Lannisters.” Said Dany, grinning from cheek to cheek. Sansa could feel heat flare within her at the fervor in Dany’s eyes. “They are not the only ones who will pay their debts.”


	7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

For all Daenerys was feared she was also loved and as soon as she returned to the castle the servants jumped to wait upon her, bringing forth golden goblets and flagons of red wine, a bowl of fresh water so she may clean her hands, a pair of fresh silken slippers to replace her mud spattered riding boots.

She sat at Jon’s side in the solar, her eyes slipping down the piece of parchment she held in her hands. She tried to read but found she could not, her mind too occupied with thoughts of the red haired girl she had spent her afternoon with.

                  Daenerys Targaryen had been more than skeptical approaching this meeting. Tyrion and Ser Jorah had both told her of their experiences with Sansa, both in King’s Landing and on the ride to Winterfell. They had spoken of her courage and her fire and how she had managed not to lose herself in the abuse she had endured. But the queen knew how easily pretty girls and sweet words could sway men.

But Sansa was as true as Jon had told. Her words rang true and strong and she faced Dany without an once of fear in her heart. She truly was as resilient a creature as the men had said. But in her eyes Dany could see flickers of something hurting, something broken. Other than Jon the girl did not have any family for they had been hunted down by the Lannisters and killed. Or lost…perhaps a worst fate. One that subjected Sansa to never knowing whether or not she would ever see her younger sister or brothers again.

Dany had been told few of the things Sansa had endured across the years, watching her father lose his head, being stripped and beaten before the entire court in King’s Landing on many occasions. Dany did not even like to think about what she had faced in the Eyrie with Lord Baelish.

Tyrion himself had volunteered to ride with Ser Jorah to the Eyrie. When Daenerys had first told him that they had located Lady Sansa his face had come alight instantly and he had rushed to her side, impatiently awaiting her words. “What of her?” he asked. “Is she…does she live?”

“Aye.” Said Dany. “She escaped to the Eyrie with Petyr Baelish.” The brightness that had entered his face turned dark in an instant, like a flame snuffed out by a snap of wind. “What is it?” Dany asked, light brows furrowed.

Tyrion looked half mad with fury. He could barely speak without his voice quivering with anger. “Lord Baelish is a snake. He will say and do anything to gain more power and elevate his own sense of importance. It is because Lord Stark trusted him that he met his end.”

When Dany and Jon retired to bed that night Sansa lay still awake, standing beside her window and looking out at the city. She had spent many nights like this, standing just before the window, waiting for Robb to come to her. The servants whispered that her brother rode into the battle on the back of a direwolf. She knew it was a foolish thing to say but still her heard swelled with hope at these stories, at any mention of her brother.

And after he had been killed Sansa waited for Jon Snow. _Targaryen_ , she corrected herself. Joffrey had teased her for many months that her bastard brother would never come for her. That he did not even remember her. In her heard Sansa had always known that Joffrey was wrong, but in her nightmares she feared he was right.

Sansa retired down stairs, growing quickly tired of being confined in the chamber. She had always found the gardens enjoyable and as she passed through the trees and flowers, her mind wandered to the days when Margaery Tyrell had eaten teacakes with her grandmother here. She had been a flowering rose herself, but now she had gone and only her memory remained.

Sansa heard a branch snap behind her and turned quickly around, taking an unconscious step backward. The shadow of a man had entered the garden and Sansa stifled a scream, jumping backwards. Her breath had become stifled and quick and her heart best fast and wild as a war drum.

“My apologies.” Said the shadow, stepping forward into the light. The sky was silver from the cloudless moon and bathed in light the man looked like a marble statue, tall and muscled and beautiful. “I very much did not mean to startle you.”

He did not come any closer to Sansa and she was thankful for it, her heart continuing to beat fast. She shivered; having forgotten the nights in King’s Landing often grew chilled when after the sun had set. “May I offer you my cloak?” the man asked and Sansa nodded, having lost her voice. He took a step forward and she tried not to flinch, his hand reaching out to pass her the dark cloak.

It fell heavily around her shoulders, nearly swallowing her in a kiss of dark fabric. “I am sorry.” Said Sansa, finding her voice. “I have been so rude. I did not mean to offend you.”

The man laughed. “I am not offended, lady. I should not have come so suddenly upon her. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Oberyn Martell, Lord of Dorne.”

“Sansa Stark.” She said. For the first time she realized she did not have a title. She was no longer the Lady of the Eyrie. She was no longer Alayne Stone, bastard of Petyr Baelish. “Just…just Sansa Stark.” She said with a slight smile.

Oberyn Martell smiled brightly and his face came alight with the motion. “Well Just Sansa Stark, it is a pleasure to meet you.” He kissed her knuckles on the hand she had extended out of habit. “I have heard the knights and servants speaking of your beauty and I can now see they did not exaggerate.”

She flushed red as the roses to her left and Oberyn smiled at the endearing gesture. “Thank you, my lord.” She said. “I have heard of you as well. The Red Viper of Dorne. They say there is no better man with a spear in all of Westeros.”

He smiled again. He was very handsome, especially when he smiled, and in the moonlight his copper coloured skin shone bright as liquid gold. His smile curved slightly to one side, the dark hair peppered around his jaw generous and freshly shaven. “I am surely not the best.” Said Oberyn. “But I will not lie and say I am not skilled.”

She laughed and it was Oberyn’s turn to admire her. Her eyes were blue as the water in the King’s Landing harbor and the skin that had already been pale was now cool and delicate as freshly fallen snow. He had not been lying when he said the reports of her beauty had not been exaggerated.

“It is quite late.” He said. “May I be your escort for the rest of your turn about the garden?”

She smiled and accepted the arm he offered, her hand curling around the inside of his elbow. His skin was warm, even though the layers of yellow and white cloth, and she could feel the contraction of muscle beneath her hand as they began to walk.

“I have spent many years in this city.” Said Sansa as they walked along the path. “But in all my years no one has been so kind to me as they have been today.”

“It is my pleasure.” Said Oberyn. “To escort a lovely woman through the gardens is not only a mark of happiness on your day but on mine as well. But today I am not enjoying it as much as usual.”

“Oh?” Sansa asked.

“Such a lovely woman among such lovely flowers puts them to shame.”

Sansa grinned at his words. “Ah yes. I am just now remembering something else about the Red Viper.”

“And what is that?” he asked.

“That he has a silver tongue.”

Her eyes flared with mischief and amusement and Oberyn could not help but admire her once again. but this time it was not solely for her beauty but for her wit, which she proceeded to show for the next hour as they continued their walk.

“Well, Lord Martell, I am very pleased to tell you that I have had more fun today with you, than three years locked in the castle.” Sansa said and though she had been half teasing him, Oberyn’s face became suddenly serious.

“Lady Sansa.” He said, taking her hand. His eyes were dark and hard. “Would that I could make them suffer for that which has been done to you. My lady sister, Elia, met the same fate. Although I have quite glad you did not meet the same end.”

“I am sorry about your sister.” Said Sansa. His hands were callused and rough but they made exhilaration run through her. Exhilaration that soared as she remembered Jon’s hands had felt the same.

“The Lannister’s see fire in people and they try to squash it. With my sister they succeeded but I am very pleased that with you they did not.” He said.

Her face darkened. “I am to decide the fate of Cersei Lannister and her children on the morrow.” She said. Her eyes had filled with tears more suddenly than she could stop them and Oberyn lifted a finger to wipe the tear from her cheek.

They ascended the garden steps and returned to the castle, Oberyn leading the copper haired girl to her apartments. As they stood outside the heavy oak door the prince of Dorne smiled again and spoke, “I will right there with you.” He said. “I know we have not known each other long but-“

“No.” said Sansa, grinning. “I am glad you will be there. Though we met an auspicious start I am very glad for our introduction. You are very kind.”

He kissed her hand once more as he bid her good night and as she closed the door behind her Sansa did not know that Oberyn stood for a moment in the hall, reflecting on their encounter and only after a few minutes had passed, turned on his heel and made down the corridor, smiling to himself. But what Oberyn did not know is, on the other side of the door, Sansa did the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!


	8. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

When Jon awoke he went straight to Sansa’s room, knocking gently on the door. He had not expected to find her awake, let alone curled upon the window seat with a mug of hot tea in her hand and an uneaten plate of eggs and bacon upon a plate at her side. He did not have to ask to find that she had not slept that night.

“Good morrow.” He greeted, taking a seat at her side.

Jon had dreamt of her last night. It was a pleasant dream of the pair in a cottage by the sea. Sansa had been singing him a sweet lullaby as they swam in the waves, his hands upon her hips as he lifted her onto his shoulders and dumped her back into the water, grinning all the while. He had awoken to find himself encompassed so deeply in happiness that it was not until he dressed and left the chamber that he found he was not in the cottage and Sansa was not awaiting his return.

Then he had feared he would feel awkward to be beside her again but as soon as he had turned the brass knob on her door and entered the room all the trepidation that had been upon him washed away. It was how they always were. Completely at ease, as though they had never gone through times of such great unhappiness.

“Good morrow.” Said Sansa, a soft smile upon her lips.

“You did not sleep last night.” Said Jon and it was not a question but an observation, earning a small shrug from Sansa.

“I am afraid.” Said Sansa. Jon sat beside her, moving the plate aside and sitting upon the cushion. She was wrapped in an unfamiliar cloak but when he came closer he could see the sun sigil of House Martell and questions flooded his mind. But only one was important at the moment.

“Why?” he asked, concerned, though he already knew.

She gave a long, troubled sigh. “I’m going to see them today.” She said. “Petyr. Tommen. Cersei. I haven’t seen her since Joffrey’s wedding, where she accused me of murdering him. She did such horrible things to me…things I’ve never told anyone. Not even you.”

He was filled with icy cold anger and his desire to descend to the red cells beneath the castle and strangle the Golden Lioness never so strong. “You will not have to say anything that you do not want.” Jon assured her, taking her hand. “I’ll protect you. Daenerys will not push you to say anything that you are unwilling.”

She smiled softly and took a long sip of her tea, Jon’s eyes following her movements. Her hands were shaking. It was something that always happened to her when she was nervous and he gave her a reassuring smile.

After a bit of coaxing she ate a crust of bread, if only to silence Jon’s nagging, and he left the room as she changed her clothes. Together they walked to the great hall where the Small Council and many of the people of court were already gathered and as Sansa entered the room all eyes followed her.

She was dressed demurely but no less beautiful. In fact the plain colours and fabrics made her all the more lovely as there was nothing to distract from the beauty of her face. Sansa took her place behind the podium and Daenerys called the crowd to order with few words but a commanding presence.

“Today we are gathered to face the justice brought forth by tyranny in King’s Landing. The Lannister’s and their accomplices stand accused of grand larceny, murder, abuse, and many other crimes. Crimes that cannot go unpunished.” Said the queen.

The Small Council: Oberyn Martell, the queen’s nephew Aegon Targaryen, Willas Tyrell, Tyrion Lannister, Jorah Mormont, as well as Jon, sat in several chairs beside the queen, who took her seat once she had finished speaking.

The trial was led by Ser Barristan Selmy and after a few moments the trial was underway. Myrcella Baratheon was brought in first, led by the hand by Trystane Martell, her betrothed. She looked frightened, her eyes wide and scared, and her cheeks pink from crying. Jon knew she had not been kept in the red cells with her mother, but the looming threat of a trial was no less easy for her.

When Sansa spoke it was in her defense, speaking of how kind the girl had been to her, even in the face of unkindness by her mother and brother. Oberyn Martell also spoke in her defense and after a deliberation of only two minutes, she was cleared of all charges, so happy that she embraced Sansa tightly, kissing both of her cheeks.

Next came Cersei’s youngest son, Tommen Baratheon. The Kitten King, Tyrion said he was called. The boy was green and even more frightened than his sister had been, shaking so much that his teeth chattered. “P-please.” He begged. “I d-didn’t w-want to be k-king. P-please!”

It was the Hand’s turn to give an impassioned speech about his nephew then, calling on the fact that the boy had given thousands of gold dragons to the poor during his short time as king. From the crowd a pretty, dark haired girl came forward and introduced herself as Margaery Tyrell, wife of Tommen. She spoke about his kindness to her during their marriage, pleading for mercy on his behalf. Mercy that was granted.

But the day was about to get very much harder. It took four men to restrain Cersei Lannister when she was brought into the great hall. She looked half mad, her hair matted and unevenly cut, having been torn from her head in fits of rage. Her clothing was ragged and dirty, the gown so covered in grime that the crowd began to take bets on what colour it originally was.

When she saw Sansa behind the podium she screamed so loud the glass windows shook as though the earth beneath was moving. When she finally stopped shrieking and Jon’s attention turned back to Sansa he could feel a knife of pain stab through him.

The crimson haired girl had gone pale as marble, her eyes wide and her mouth agape. She stared down at Cersei in silence, no doubt reliving the events that had left her hands shaking and heart broken.

When it was her turn to speak she could not, her mouth opening and closing several times with no vocalization produced from the motion. Her eyes flicked upward at Jon and he gave her a firm smile and a nod.

“She-she…” said Sansa. “She laughed when my brother was killed. But even worse she made me wish I had met the same fate.”

Oberyn Martell’s face was hard as stone, watching her. “She’s lying!” screamed Cersei, though there was no person in the room that believed her accusation. “She tried to seduce my son so she could be queen!”

“Seduce him?” repeated Sansa with a scoff. “When would I have done that? When I was stripped and beaten before the court. When I had arrows shot at my head for target practice. When I was taken and forced to stare at my father’s decapitated head that you son had mounted on the castle walls.”

The crowd murmured in disgust, all the while Cersei screamed. “I was kept prisoner in this castle for two years. Locked in a room. Not even allowed to go outside nor open my windows. I was not even allowed to die.” She said. “I did not eat for weeks in hopes to join my mother and brother but Cersei forced food down my throat so I could not die with dignity.”

Jon felt his heart seize with misery. He ached to have come for her. To slay any demon she might face past or present or future.

“You wicked bitch!” screamed Cersei. “She’s lying! She’s lying to you and you fools believe her!”

Sansa’s words had sealed her fate but her own words did nothing to reverse it and she was dragged from the hall without another word from anyone. Daenerys called for a break and Sansa disappeared before Jon could come to her side. She had slipped into a side hall, closing the door behind her in a hopeful bid for silence.

She had spent years pushing away these memories, forcing them down and away in hopes that she would forget them. And now she had to dredge them up before a crowd of a hundred hungry eyes who cared only for gossip and not her well being. They cared only to watch Cersei’s head roll across the stage, just as they had cared to watch Ned Stark’s do the same.

The thought of seeing Petyr Baelish made her heart nearly stop beating.

There was a knock on the door and even without asking she knew it was Jon, opening the door just a crack so he could enter. His eyes were sad as he embraced her tightly, holding her head against his shoulder and feeling the wetness of tears on his tunic.

“We can stop this.” He said. “We can do this another time.”

“No.” said Sansa. “I want him to be punished for what he did to me.”

Her voice broke and the sound made Jon empty and sad. He embraced her only tighter, clinging as much to her as she was to him. He wished to never let go, feeling her trembling body against his. “I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry I did not come for you.” He whispered, the words muffled by her hair. “I regret every day of my life that you suffered so greatly.”

“You didn’t know.” Said Sansa. She dare not tell him that she wished he had done the same. “Nobody knew. Not even Robb.”

He held her at arms length. “I cannot let you do this anymore. I’ll speak to Daenerys. We can at least have the trial held in private.”

“Please no.” said Sansa. “I just…I want this day to be over.”  

He kissed her temple, pulling her into an embrace once more. “It will be. Soon.” He said. “And you can return to Winterfell at once.” She wanted to scream at him that she wanted him to come with her. To rule Winterfell at her side. To be Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell. But she only smiled at him and continued the embrace.


	9. Chapter Nine

Oberyn Martell gave Queen Daenerys a hard look. It was midmorning and the trial had already seemed to be going on for ages. It had gone on for so long that even the people of court had gotten tired of the spectacle. Even such endless gossips had given up trying to keep up their appearance of loyalty and had broken off in large groups, wandering down the street and allowing their idle chatter to filter through the city like wind through willows.

Sansa had not slept the night previous. The Lord of Dorne knew that first hand after spending half the night at her side, naming flowers and speaking of the Dornish lilies that bloomed only once every decade, but whose beauty was worth the wait.

But it looked as though even after Oberyn had escorted Sansa to her chamber she had not met even a moment of sleep. Her face was pink and her cheeks hollow, the overall shape of her face gaunt and unfamiliar. Even the copper hair he had grown so fond of seemed dull, the colour of her sandy pink gown doing nothing but washing away her complexion.

When hours had passed with no event Oberyn Martell began to resent the queen for allowing the trial to continue for so long. There was a vast amount of defense from Baelish and accusations from Sansa, as well as witnesses to support both parties. Tyrion Lannister spoke volumes on behalf of Sansa, whom he claimed only fled with Baelish to escape conviction for a crime she did not commit. His loyalty to her was outstanding, noted Oberyn. Though he did not blame the young lion for falling half in love with the fire haired wolf girl.

But the fire and life she had seen in the garden had been snuffed out abruptly. She was quiet. Afraid. She found interest in every inch of every brick in the hall, every minute detail of interest rather than meet his eyes.

The interest that had dwindled so suddenly from the crowds returned all at once when the chamber doors opened and a frail, thin looking girl entered.

"The Lady Jeyne Poole." announced Ser Barristan Selmy.

Oberyn felt sad as soon as he saw her. Her shoulders shook as though she was without a cloak in the dead of winter and her skin was a sickening gray color. She walked with a limp, though one she seemed not quite familiar wish, showing Oberyn whatever was causing her stiff movements was fairly recent.

When Oberyn looked up at Sansa he immediately wished he had not. Her blue eyes had gone wide, the red rimmed lids a stark contrast against her sapphire eyes. She seemed to curl in on herself like the edges of a burning parchment, her shoulders slightly hunched and her dress suddenly seeming all the more large.

For all that Sansa's expression had hurt him, Baelish's nearly made Oberyn laugh. The bastard looked like a hunted deer, his eyes almost wider than Sansa's and even more frightened. The smarmy smirk that usually occupied his face had dissapeared suddenly.

Sansa cleared her throat. She shifted with discomfort, feeling every eye in the room upon her. There was not a sound in the room to divert attention from her. "This...this is Jeyne. We were very close friends before..." "Before?" Oberyn urged softly. Sansa looked at him and squeezed her eyes closed tightly, speaking quickly, as if she feared she might lose her courage. "Lord Baelish gave her to Ramsay Bolton."

"He _gave_ her?" asked Dany, looking incredulous.

On her other side Jon could see the almost imperceptable change in Dany's posture, the way her shoulders braced against Sansa's words, the way her jaw clenched, visible only in the popping of the small vein upon her neck. Even the way her eyes became hard as forged iron and her hands turned to fists as she gripped the arms of her chair.

"Lord Baelish wrote to Lord Bolton, swearing his fealty after we arrived in the Vale. He said he would give the lord a gift to prove this loyalty. He...he told them he had found my sister."

"And had he?" asked Dany softly, offering a small smile.

"No." said Sansa, her voice small. A knife of pain pushed through Jon's chest, stiff as heart sickness. "Arya is dead. But Lord Baelish promised her hand to Lord Bolton's son nevertheless. He claims Jeyne was Arya. Jeyne wrote only once to me telling me he had began to..."

Sansa clearly looked uncomfortable with what she was about to say, the upset she felt making her face splotch red as flame. As she continued there was not a peep audible over her voice. Not even a breath was taken.

"-hurt her." Sansa finished.

Jeyne began to wail. The sound was loud as a cannon striking a stone wall. Dany jumped halfway into the air, frightened by the sound of her cries. Jon's chin had fallen from where it rested upon his hand and his chin had slammed into his goblet, blood filling his mouth.

"Jeyne...we have to show them what Baelish does." Sansa met Dany's eyes with startling clarity. A chill ran through Jon. "He takes good things and destroys them. Nothing good can survive under his care."

"Lady Sansa." said Dany. "It is not my intention to make you uncomfortable with the things I have asked of you. I only need to paint a more complete picture so that I can properly sentence this man-"

Interrupted Sansa, "He should die." The fire haired girl had spoken boldly but the words she said made her flinch as though she had been stuck. "I wished Jeyne was dead. I wished she was dead and I was dead with her. Petyr used us for his own gain and did not care how he hurt us in the process. He...I want him to feel like we felt."

Jeyne Poole began to scream again and she did not stop until she jumped up from her chair and rushed to Sansa's side, dragging her limp leg behind. The limp was all the more powerful now that Oberyn knew its origin.

Sansa took the thin girl in her arms and held her tightly, whispering softly to her. Jeyne Poole ceased her screams, her body so taxed that no breath could be drawn and she could barely speak let alone scream.

Littlefinger did not even bother speaking. Of all the bad things the witnesses had said of him they had all shared the same complement. Petyr Baelish always knew when he was on the losing side of history, but it pleased Jon to know that this time he could not worm easily out of it.

When Jon made to approach her after the trial had been dismissed Sansa was still comforting the broken girl. Her gown was wet and spoiled with tears but she did not seem to notice nor care. She held the girl, singing softly under her breath. _Gentle Mother font of mercy_...

Jon recognized the song and it sent a thrill through him. He remembered when she had once rushed out to the battlements of Winterfell to sing to the Northern knights before they has left to begin a great battle. Her words had filled those soldiers with strength and bravery and they did so now as well, both Jeyne and Jon coming to an immediate halt, every thought gone from their minds.

"It's okay, Jeyne." she whispered. "He's gone. They are both gone now. You're safe...we're... we are safe."

Jon felt empty and sad. It took him many hours to recover from her words. Even so long after the trial when he had bathed and supped and retired to the feather bed he shared with Dany he could still hear them. He boiled with rage at the thought of Sansa in such fright. Even Dany could not calm him as he curled onto his side in the bed, staring out the window as though he could see into the past.

"Are you thinking about your lady sister?" Dany had whispered but her voice still cut through the darkness.

In the back of his mind Jon knew it was not the fault of Daenerys that these events had turned out as they had. But she had not stopped the trial. She had watched Sansa and Jeyne, the girl who had been raised at his side in Winterfell. The steward's daughter. The girl Robb had shared his first kiss with. The girl who had nearly lost her maidenhood to him beneath the leaves of the Heart Tree.

Jon knew he was foolish and petulant as a child but when Dany peeked over his shoulder to kiss him softly on the lips, Jon pretended to be fast asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse any spelling or grammatical errors I wrote this while traveling so it might be riddled with mistakes! I will edit it later and fix them. But I hope you enjoyed anyway! :)


	10. Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

When Jon awoke he found his mood had not changed. He was sour from the moment he rose and washed, descending the stairs to find Sansa breaking her fast on the balcony that had been carefully crafted on the side of the castle so Queen Rhaenys could overlook the city. He took a step forward, overwhelmed with pleasure at the sight of Sansa’s smiling face. After so many hours of misfortune during the trial that occupied the past days he would have given a limb to see her smile once more.

Jon took a step towards the door and reached for the knob, stepping through. After a sweep over Sansa his eyes reached Oberyn Martell and the smile nearly slipped form his face for he felt not an ounce of happiness anywhere within him.

Lord Oberyn was a good man and a good friend; Jon knew this to be true. It was Oberyn whose friendship had often got Jon through the days he found too hard to bear. The weeks Daenerys had been away, touring Meereen or Qarth or other Free Cities to ensure her people were not in unrest. The day each year that Robb would have celebrated his name day. The days men and women had stood before him and claimed to have new of his sisters, causing Jon’s heart to rise halfway into his throat, only to fall once their leads had been found to be false as fool’s gold.

It was always Oberyn who spoke wise words about friendship or duty, who brought Dornish wine to dull his sadness, who prohibited him from stripping half nude and diving into the fountain before the castle on the eve of Arya’s nameday when Jon had fallen so deeply into his cups that he had been sure his left hand was a puppy with whom he kept trying to snuggle with.

And yet the thought of Lord Martell’s silver tongue anywhere near his sister’s ear made him feel slightly nauseated. It was just the feelings of an elder brother, he told himself. Robb would have felt the same way. But he knew he need not bother for any man who had the gall to challenge the iron set of Sansa’s jaw would not survive long in her graces.

Sansa’s face brightened when she turned to see him step through the doorway. “I am glad to see you awake.” She said happily. For a moment she had tried to turn her face away, tried to hide the pale sheen of her skin and the dark marks beneath her eyes that proved she had not slept the previous nights. But she had given that notion up quickly when he raised a dark eyebrow and looked at her.

She had risen to embrace him and for a moment she seemed so content in his arms that he was not sure she remembered what horrors the day would bring. He would not remind her, he knew for certain. He would rather never feel the warmth of the sun on his back again than bring her even an ounce of pain. Robb would have done the same, he thought, as he always did when confused about his feelings towards the crimson haired girl. But he was a fool to think that his feelings towards her were no more than brotherly.

“Will you dine with us?” asked Lord Martell, lifting a cloche from a plate to reveal a wrapped Dornish omelet, among Jon’s favourite meals.

He considered the invitation for a moment before politely declining. “I am to meet Daenerys in the chamber room.” He bid hid goodbyes and beat a hasty retreat, doing his very best to avoid Sansa’s penetrating gaze as he did so.

His soon to be wife met him as he turned the corner and in their haste they nearly sent each other to the floor, the rolls of parchment she had been carrying unfurling as they fell across the tile.

“Good morning.” she greeted. Her face brightened as it always did when she spoke to him and he felt a pang of guilt, wondering if his did the same. She gave him a chaste kiss, remaining perfectly modest due to the events that would take place later that afternoon.

The couple broke their fast in the parlor, Jon wishing he had accepted the Dornish omelets as the barley oatmeal he was eating now held not an ounce of interest to him. “Have you made the necessary arrangements?” he asked, pushing away his plate and allowing it to be taken by the servants.

“Yes.” Said Dany, grim. Her face was flushed quite prettily, the oils she had brought from Meereen making her skin glow like porcelain. “Have you seen Lady Sansa?”

Jon nodded. “She fares well. She is stronger than she looks.”

Dany gave a laugh and took a long draw from her chalice. “Truer words have never been said.”

Jon could not help but think of the girl Sansa had once been, before she was jaded, when she was naïve to the cruelties others had suffered. He remembered her playing with Lady and picking flowers in the gardens, winding their stems into a crown and giving them away to all her friends and all the children of the servants. She had made him a crown once and had teasingly placed it upon his head while naming him the Queen of Love and Beauty, just as Lyanna Stark had been named. And just as with Lyanna those words had led Sansa and Jon into the years that would later be known as their worst.

“Today will be much harder on her, I hate to say. I cannot wait for this horrid thing to be over so she can return to her life again, without constant fear of Cersei of Baelish coming for her again.” Said Daenerys, her frown growing.

“I wish you could have known her before.” he said, smiling fondly.

Dany watched him, the corners of her eyes crinkling with happiness. “I would give anything for it. And to see my young Jon Snow with his brothers and sisters.”

“A happier family never lived.” He agreed _. And they never would again_.

The day progressed until afternoon dawned with stifling heat and Sansa found herself standing upon the platform on the dais where a lone stool sat. She had always hoped this day would come but now as she stood upon the wood that had once wept with the life’s blood of her father she could not help but feel the same fear and sadness she had felt then.

Her eyes blinked in the sunlight as they searched the crowd, as though if she looked hard enough she might see Arya again. The day Lord Eddard fell had brought not one death but two, as it had been the last time she had ever seen her sister. Cersei had told her she was dead and Sansa had hoped so, secretly, darkly, for even death was better than for Arya to live any fate like that of Sansa’s.

At her side Jon looked as contemplative, looking over the heads of the crowd with disdain in his eyes. It was said at the Wall that this was how Lord Stark fell. The greatest man he had ever known knocked to his knees before a crowd of tomato throwing, allegiance wavering fools. The thought made him mad enough to shout.

Jon had met her at her chamber door, expecting to find her in the seat by the window. He had expected to find her in pieces, though in retrospect he knew that was foolish. She was too strong to show her fear or sadness, even to him.

“Are you ready, my lady?” he asked. She turned to face him, looking suddenly refreshed. He recognized Dany’s Meereenese oil shining upon her face, causing her face to regain its proper colour. In fact she looked quite beautiful. If he had not known where she was heading he would have though she was on her way to attend a courtly event.

There was nothing so extravagant about her gown. It was Dornish, he realized with a start. _A gift_. The sand coloured gown bore her shoulders and back and for a moment Jon felt himself reach forward, his finger just half an inch away from grazing her soft skin when he remembered himself, pulling back and frowning.

“You look beautiful.” He said. That he could not stop.

She thanked him, turning towards him. “I never would have known that this is where we would be, so many years after Winterfell. You a future King and me a-“

“A future princess most like.” Said Jon, brushing his hand across the back of the Dornish dress. It was soft as velvet between his fingers. He imagined it would be what her hair would feel like if he ran his fingers through it.

She arched a crimson eyebrow. “It was just a kind gesture, not a proposal. Something to get my mind off the… _events_ of today.”

“I’m sorry.” Said he. “I did not mean anything by it. I have not slept properly- though I am sure you have not either. After today things can return to normality.”

She beamed, accepting his offered arm. “I plan on it.”

Jon knew the scene would draw horrid memories for her. He had only hoped to evade them as long as possible but now, as they walked out through the castle doors and became exposed to the screams of the madding crowd, he knew he could escape them no longer.

The scaffold was ominous and bleak, the single stool standing out as a sharp contrast. Suddenly Jon was thinking of Janos Slynt. Suddenly Sansa was thinking of her father. Suddenly they both were.

Dany stood in the center of the platform with Jon at her side. In the crowd many familiar faces shone. Tyrion Lannister by the statue of Baelor, just where Arya had been. Oberyn Martell shifting between the lines of people. Servants that had worked in the Red Keep when Sansa was locked in it, some with sympathetic faces, others without.

Daenerys said a few words, clearing her throat several times in discomfort as she read off the list of crimes that the Lion Queen had committed. “-treason. Bribery. Debauchery-“ the list continued for minutes, the crowd growing more and more restless.

When Cersei Lannister was brought forward the first person Sansa turned to was Tyrion. The youngest Lannister was ashen faced as he watched his sister dragged across the stage, kicking and screaming so loud that her voice soon began to ebb. He too remembered the day she had stood upon the stage and watched as Lord Stark took his place beneath Ilyn Payne’s sword.

“I don’t know why I cry.” Tyrion whispered, his scarred cheek twitched. “I feel a fool. She was crueler to me than any I have ever faced. Though I supposed I can thank her for making me strong enough to face the others.”

Cersei saw him in the crowd. She screamed, writhing in her bonds, fell to the floor in a heap of crimson and gold robes, the ones she had been wearing when she had been captured. The Lannister colours were what she lived for and they were what she would die for.

Cersei pleaded with him, begged for him to spare her. Tried to reach out a hand in friendship to him, a mad smile on her face. Half of her hair had been chopped off, leaving frayed ends of golden brown hanging like a curtain in her face.

When Tyrion said nothing she spat at him and then apologized, falling back as her legs folded beneath her.

The Imp of Lannister did not loose another tear through he did not release his crushing grip upon Sansa’s hand. She found feel her bones bruising but she did not speak a word to stop him, enduring the pain to ease his own. He did not cry when Cersei Lannister was forced to her knees, her head bent forward across the chopped stump. When the golden lioness screamed loud enough to pop the drums of every ear in the city. When the sword came down upon her thin neck and a spatter of blood sprayed their feet, dots of blood soaking into the suede that covered Jon’s toes.

Petyr Baelish was next but Jon barely recognized. His presence was atypical, appearing in plain clothes and without the smug grin he seemed to always bear. The sight was both pleasing and disturbing.

He was crying. _Crocodile’s tears_ , Jon thought with an audible scoff. But beside him he felt Sansa tense. He took her hand, feeling her warm skin against his own, the fingers of her other hand dancing up his forearm. Even in such a drastically terrible moment this gesture, no matter how small, was a welcomed relief.

The dais had been washed before Baelish was brought out, that small kindness was afforded him, but not any others. When he refused to walk he was dragged, the toes of his boots scraping the wood, until he was forced to his knees. He looked at Sansa and for a moment, just a brief moment, there was a flicker of true, unbridled emotion that passed over his face.

Fear. Even a blind man could see the previous lord was afraid. He sniffled and shook at the shoulders, his black hair greasy and unwashed. He was no longer the put together man he always boasted he was. He was now how Jon truly saw him, an apathetic coward.

When the sword arced through the air and swooped down for the second time Sansa squeezed his hand. It was a slight gesture; one only Jon knew had even happened. To any other they only remained a brother holding the hand of his sister, standing close at her side to catch her if she were to faint at the sight of blood.

But Sansa had not faltered. She had not flinched nor fainted. Not even a gasp escaped her when the head of Petyr Baelish fell onto the bloodstained wood and was swept into the coffin he was to be buried in. She had remained as strong and implacable as iron. Regal even, he thought, watching her.

It was a just end to the unjust life of Baelish. The last thing that had crossed his line of vision was the woman he had tried his hardest to force down, both literally and figuratively- as Jon had learned during the course of the trial. In his sight Sansa had been beautiful and unfaltering, her hair red as copper under the southron sun and her eyes dancing with fire.

The group broke apart after the deed had been done, Dany whisked away to attend to business, Tyrion to delve deep into his cups, and Jon to bathe once more, trying to wash the sins of the day from his body.

He whispered to Sansa, squeezing her hand again, “You are the strongest woman I know. Not many, men nor women, could have watched what you watched without regret.”

“I feel no regret.” She said. She flashed a smile at her brother, reaching up a hand to brush through the curls of his dark hair. Her eyes held not an ounce of falsehood. “I feel… _nothing_.”

And she had been truthful. She had felt not an ounce of regret. But she did feel something. For the first time in nearly six years she had felt true freedom.


	11. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

Sansa knew her days in King’s Landing were limited. She had fulfilled her duty, having testified before the courts, and was sure that sooner rather than later Dany would ask her to leave the city or- the more likely option, try to broker a marriage between her and some high lord. Margaery had once tried to do such a thing with Willas, perhaps Dany would do the same. She could do worse for a husband than he or Lord Oberyn, whom had been more than kind to her in the past days.

She had seen his face during the trial, seen how his hands had tightened to fists while resting on the arms of his chair and his face had been hard as stone. Jon had looked quite the same, casting murderous glances at Lord Baelish and Cersei Lannister.

Sansa was shocked to find how much the prospect of leaving the city that had been so cruel to her made her ache. Winterfell awaited her. The city she had longed for since the day she had left it, the image of the snow and the worn stone making her flutter with happiness. Even on the darkest of days it had brought her joy. But now the memories made her sick. She did not want to face them without Jon. Without the last member of her family, her wolf pack, as Tyrion had once teased.

It felt like years since Sansa had first welcomed her moon’s blood and had had her first season as a woman old enough to be wed. It felt like a lifetime ago that she and Tyrion’s maiden Shae had tried to burn her mattress to prevent Cersei from finding out that she had bled. It felt like a lifetime ago that she had been wed to Tyrion, and although their marriage was long ago annulled by the crown, she still felt dislike at the thought of being married again.

Jon had told her that she would not have to marry any man she found disagreeable. His dark eyes had watched her, his head dipping low to meet her eye level. “You do not have to marry at all if you do not want it.” he had insisted. “Winterfell is yours and yours alone. The North will accept you whether or not you have a Lord at your side.”

She had smiled and agreed but had known it was her duty. It was what her mother and father would have wanted. To spend her life as a childless spinster would guarantee more than loneliness was her greatest fear for the castle to fall to someone undeserving, just as it had almost fallen into the clutches of Roose and Ramsay Bolton. The thought made her feel ill.

She supposed Lord Martell would make an agreeable husband. She had handsome and kind and had proven his fondness to her in the past with small tokens of his appreciation, such as the thin golden bracelet that lay against her wrist. But she was sure he would desire to return to Dorne, even if not right away.

In the recesses of her mind she could see the face of the man she wished to marry. She saw his face each time she closed her eyes. Sansa could imagine the warmth of his arms around her, the softness of his lips peppering her face with kisses. In the darkness of her bedchamber she pictured him doing other things. Better things. Things that made her flush red as a pomegranate when she saw him the next day.

But Jon was to marry Lady Daenerys and Sansa would die before betraying the trust of her lady.

Dany summoned Sansa to her solar come morning, inviting her to sit at the opposite end of the table and break their fast together. They chatted about nothing in particular, each completely at ease around the other. Nearly an hour passed before Daenerys broached the subject Sansa had been expecting for nearly a week.

“When you return to Winterfell do you plan to take a husband?” Dany asked, dabbing at her red lips with the corner of a napkin. Sansa could plainly read the intention on her face as easily as if had been written there.

Sansa shrugged. “I do not know yet.” She answered honestly.

“Have you found no man agreeable?”

_Just one_ , she thought, yet she spoke on the contrary. “No, my lady.”

Daenerys tried to read her face but found nothing to make her suppose otherwise. “Lord Martell is a handsome man.”

“Indeed.” Sansa agreed, again honest. “He is very kind.”

“If you asked him I am sure he would return to Winterfell. As long as his brother Doran lives he does not have to return to Dorne. Lady Arianne Martell will become regent after he passes.”

“I would not ask him to leave his home for mine.” Sansa replied, her voice firm. “If we were to become betrothed.” Which, from the firm set of her expression, Sansa could see Daenerys wished.

“There are many men who would jump at the chance to marry you, Sansa. Not just those who desire your titles but those who desire your love.” Said Daenerys, looking at the girl who sat opposite her. Sansa was very beautiful. Each time she entered the throne room the people of court stopped in their movements and conversations to gape at her, their jaws falling slack and their eyes widening. Even if she were to wear a grain sack as a gown she would outshine half the women in Westeros and Essos combined.

Sansa smiled politely. “You flatter me, your grace.” She said. “I am sure you would find a proper match for me if you tried.”

Daenerys took her hand and stroked her fingers softly. “I would not do so without your consent and your enthusiasm. I know what it is like to be married to a man you do not love nor even like. It is not my desire to do that to you nor any other.”

The chamber door opened and Jon entered the room. He was breathless and as he walked forward he left behind a string of muddy steps.

Before he caught sight of Sansa he was already undressing, pulling his unlaced tunic over his head and letting it drop onto the tile in a heap, his callused hands falling to the laces of his breeches and beginning to undo the knot before he saw her. Jon took a step backwards, letting out a small gasp at the sight of another at the table. “I’m sorry I did not know-“

Sansa waved him away, trying very hard to keep her eyes trained on his face instead of the muscle that rippled at he stiffened in discomfort. “You have not blinded me, Jon.” said Sansa, with an air of lightness. “No need to apologize.”

He continued to pant as he fumbled for a clean tunic, dropping his swordbelt onto the table on the other side of the room. From the mud on his boots, the wear on his training sword, and the breathlessness of his chest it was clear he had been training in the yard, his hands callused from gripping the wrapped pommel of his sword. The back of his breeches were covered in dirt, most likely he had been pushed backward or lost his footing.

Lifting his long sword for so many hours had caused his muscles to grow taut and rigid, standing to attention against his skin. Even a long scar on his shoulder did not diminish from his beauty.

She turned her attention back to the wine glass, taking so long a pull of the spiced wine that her eyes began to burn. At least with blurred vision she could no longer see him and when she wiped away her tears with a cloth she found Jon was once again wearing a tunic.

“What are you up to?” he asked, taking a seat beside Sansa. The table was small enough that his knee brushed against hers, sending a spark of heat dancing through her. “Plotting something wicked?” he teased.

Dany laughed prettily and disagreed. “Nothing wicked. Just considering a few things.”

“Oh?” he asked. Sansa bit into an orange, a drop of juice dripping from her bottom lip and rolling down her chin. The desire to follow it with his tongue was suddenly growing stronger and it was perhaps the most difficult thing he had ever done to tear his gaze from her. “What things?” he asked, careful to retain the clarity to his voice.

“Whether or not Sansa should return to Winterfell as a betrothed woman.” Dany finished, rising from her chair to speak to Ser Jorah, who had just entered the room.

Jon choked on the gulp of wine he had been halfway through swallowing and Sansa had to slap his back until his coughing fit subsided. “Are you all right?” she asked, watching his Adams apple bob up and down as he swallowed.

“Yes.” He said, clearing his throat. “I just do not want another marriage proposal forced upon you.”

“Another?” she asked, arching a thin eyebrow.

Jon looked confused, his brows furrowing. “Ser Oberyn did not…speak to you?”

_So that was why Dany spoke of it_. She opened her mouth to speak when a servant entered the room to inform Sansa that she was being called upon by Lord Oberyn himself. Sansa rose politely from the table and gave a quick curtsy, slipping from the room.


	12. Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

Sansa walked with the servant as he led her to Lord Oberyn’s apartments, the corridors and wings she walked through so completely unfamiliar to her that she wondered if they had somehow been transported into another castle.

Sansa had never been inside the chamber and found it instantly wondrous. Bookshelves lined nearly every wall, so thoroughly piled with books that the tile beneath them had begun to splinter and crack. The glass balcony doors were propped open and the breeze that pushed through the room as cool at the back of her neck, whipping at her ankles and propelling her skirt to rise.

“Good morrow.” Oberyn greeted, approaching her. It seemed he had been sitting at the table on the balcony and now wondered inside, his mouth occupied by the meat of a pomegranate.

She tore her eyes from the books and smiled charmingly. “Good morrow, my lord.” She said. The intention on his face was apparent and Sansa did her best not to look too disinterested in the proposal he would soon make.

Oberyn watched her evenly. “From your face I can see you’ve already been told about my intentions.”

She gave a soft chuckle, knowing she had not been trying her hardest to mask her expression. She was tired. So very, very tired to hiding her emotions, her intentions, tired of having to hide her reactions to the harsh words spat at her from the servants and the courtly people.

“Yes, my lord.” She replied, bowing her head slightly. She would much have preferred the books on his shelf to this conversation.

“There is no need for such polite words, Sansa.” Oberyn said, his head leaning lazily to the side. A drop of pomegranate juice hug the corner of his mouth like a teardrop shaped ruby. “At least not before me.”

Sansa smiled and waited for him to continue. “I know that you do not love me.” he went on when she did not reply. “And that your heart is somewhere far away. But if we were to be wed I would never hurt you and I could protect you. Perhaps we can grow to love each other.”

Arranged marriages were not uncommon to her. Her mother and father had been in an arranged marriage. She herself had been in one, to Lord Tyrion. He had once said the same thing to her. _I won’t ever hurt you_. And he never had. He had even defended her at great risk to himself, before Joffrey, before Cersei, and now before the court when Lord Baelish had been on trial.

It would not be so great a punishment to marry a man she knew would protect her. And just as it had when her mother had married her father love would blossom like a flame that was nurtured.

Oberyn’s words had been sweet enough to make her flutter, a soft pale pink rising in her cheeks like she had just bit into one of the hot peppers he liked to dine on. “I will not ask you to abandon your home.” She cooed sweetly. His eyes fell to watch the hands that wrung nervously in her lap, twisting in her skirt, her fingers threading through the end of the cloth belt that clung to her waist.

“You need not ask.” He said with a shrug. “Winterfell is yours and I know that you have long awaited your return to it.”

She did not bother to ask how he knew such a thing for the Lord of Dorne seemed to know much more than she would have initially given him credit for. “It would be an honour to be your wife, my lord.”

Oberyn’s face became suddenly stern, the pomegranate rolling out of his hands to fall to a plate on the table. He turned to look at her, his dark eyes piercing as he met her gaze. “Lady Stark. If you agree to this marriage I want it to be under your own volition. I care not what others would think or what the queen may desire for you. It’s not about titles or lands or nobilities. It’s about what you desire, my lady.”

Sansa made to speak but Oberyn waved a hand to forestall her. “Take the night to weigh your decision before answering.” He said, a smile pulling at his lips. “Take as long as you desire, actually.”

“Yes, my lord.” She began before thinking better of it. “Oberyn.”

He smiled at the sound of the word and gave a bow before returning to his table and chair on the balcony, the rustle of the wind making the pages of his book fly open.

The day progressed without any other proposals, to Sansa’s relief, and she made her way through the castle without having to speak to anyone she did not desire to.

The snow had begun to pile up so quickly and vastly that it was impossible for the servants to shovel it away fast enough. Neither salt nor steam seemed to make a dent in it and even Sansa, whose bones had long ago grown accustomed to the feel of the Northern winter’s, seemed to catch a chill.

Outside her the door to her chamber Sansa pressed a hand to the stone, feeling nothing. She remembered the stories her father had long ago told her of the pipes that ran through the walls of Winterfell, pumping water through the stone so hot that it made fires seem dull in comparison.

She cracked a smile. When she closed her eyes she could see Winterfell. She could see her father and mother cuddled close under a fur throw, her brother climbing the walls of the tower, Arya begging Robb to teach her how to draw a bow. Jon, working in the training barracks or brushing out the horses. He had so often ventured out on his own that the servants had dubbed him the lone wolf.

When Sansa broke her fast with the queen she was more than thankful that the silver haired woman did not ask about Lord Oberyn. Instead they dined on roasted duck and vegetables and spoke easily, the conversation maneuvering easily through many subjects without being focused on anything in particular.

“Jon sends his apologies.” Said Daenerys. “He is long at the stables and wishes to bathe before supping.”

Sansa had smothered a fond smile then, remembering the days she had found him at the stables with Robb or Theon or even with Arya, who was hungry for any bit of knowledge she could gather, no matter the subject, as long as it was not needlepoint or sewing.

“I must apologize again for the events of the trial.” Daenerys said, dotting at her mouth with her napkin. “I did not mean for it to be so long nor so…sordid.”

Sansa feigned a smile, wishing for nothing more than to forget the trial had ever happened and never speak of it again. “It is not your doing.” She said, placating. She did not meet her eye.

“I was pleased to find you at the sentencing.” She continued. “I would not have been surprised to think that you did not desire to see such a thing.”

“I am not so faint hearted as I seem.” Sansa assured. _I am the blood of Winterfell. I am strong as my lady mother_.

“Of course not.” Said Daenerys. “I did not mean to imply. I only meant that even the strongest of knights have been known to fall faint as such a vast display of blood-“

Sansa pushed her soup around the bowl, realizing suddenly how much her wine looked like blood. “Perhaps we should discuss it at a later time.” Said Dany, noting the paleness of Sansa’s face. “It is not proper dinner conversation I think.”

As soon as they had presented the last course, lemon pudding with cream, that reminded Sansa very specifically of lemon cakes, she excused herself from the table, feigning fatigue, and retired to her chamber.

She had not actually been tired but as soon as she caught sight of the bed standing at ease in the midst of her chamber she could feel tiredness stinging her eyes and pulling at her bones. Sansa shed her gown easily, her fingers pulling at the laces of the blue gown until it fell around her ankles, the crimson haired girl hanging returning it to its place in the wardrobe.

She languidly removed her smallclothes and lifted a nightshift over her head, letting the loose garment sway around her willowy body, heading toward the feather bed when there was a soft knock on the door.

She prayed it was not Lord Oberyn nor the queen, having no desire to engage in idle chatter in her present state of exhaustion. “It’s me.” called a voice, muffled by the heavy wood of the door but no less recognizable. Jon seemed to have sensed her hesitation in answering the knock when he spoke and there was no trepidation to her steps once she had heard it was him, pulling open the door and stepping aside so he could enter.

He slammed the door behind him so suddenly that the paintings on the wall rattled in their frames. He looked fierce, his chest heaving and his eyes hooded and dark, watching her closely.

She was suddenly very aware of the frailty of her sleeping gown, the fabric thin enough to bear the outline of her body beneath, even the stiffness of her nipples at they peaked in the cold night air. She turned to him, the look on her face questioning.

“Are you going to marry him?” he asked, so suddenly- and loudly- breaking the silence that she jumped. She could smell Dornish wine in the air and knew it had to be from his own mouth for she had not touched the stuff since the previous day. Sansa wondered how deeply he had fallen into his cups, the set of his jaw one she had not seen in ages.

He could see the batting of her lashes against the curve of her cheek, her cool blue eyes looking deeply into his, so reminiscent of Robb’s that it made a knife of pain turn in his stomach. “I just want to go home.” She replied. A tear fell down her cheek and clung to her chin.

Jon looked at her, his eyes dark and hooded, the set of his mouth sad. “I could be your home.” He whispered. He words stood between them for a moment. Sansa watched him, her eyes widening, shocked by his confession. He shook his head, his face reddening all the more. “Do not marry him.” he said. “I cannot bear not to see it. I lo…I love you”

He crossed the room in a matter of seconds, taking her face in his hands. Jon curved her face to look at him, his thumb running across her bottom lip. Her fingers threaded through his hair, drawing him close to her until his forehead rested against hers. Their noses brushed, Sansa able to feel a bump in the ridge of his nose he had gotten when Ser Thorne had struck him.

“I love you.” Sansa whispered, as though she was afraid someone might hear her words. He took her hand, his thumb curved around her hand to stroke her palm, his fingers rough and callused but no less gentle.

“Marry me.” he whispered. The enunciation of his words caused his lips to brush hers lightly as he spoke.

“You are already betrothed.”

“I don’t care!” he said, the loudness of his words making her jump. “Run away with me. Leave with me. We could go back to Winterfell. We could search for Arya and Bran and Rickon. You…you are the only family I have left. Come back to me.”

She kissed him, the feeling of his lips upon hers making her sigh. His hand was at the small of her back, pulling her flush against him, so close that he could feel the inhale and exhale of her body. “I love you.” He whispered again, as though afraid she would forget. “I love you.”


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

Jon awoke with a pounding headache so foul that even the patter of footfalls outside his door sent splinters of pain through him. He rolled delicately onto his back, dislodging himself from the pillow he had been clutching, and tried to wipe the sleep from his eyes and the pain from his head. He did not dare open his eyes for he knew what would await him for the last time he had fallen so deeply into his cups he had sprung open his eyes to find the sun far brighter, the air far hotter, the servants far louder.

Jon's throat was dry as parchment, his tongue feeling course as sandpaper as he ran it over his lips, giving up his notion of procrastination and deciding to face the day head on. He opened his eyes, cursing under his breath and finding his throat as course as his tongue had been, his words coming out gruff as though his he had not spoken in years.

He heard the titillating sound of a laugh drift in through the open doors of his balcony and looked over to find Sansa with the stable boy, her hands twisting in the reins as she led a horse across the grassy knolls.

Jon was sure that his head would be split in two if he moved too quickly and yet, as though the Gods had moved him like a pawn in a game of chess, Jon heard him self call out to her. The pitch of his tone had been harsh enough to make him flinch and yet he repeated his words, hoping his voice carried as much as her sweet laugh had, hoping her head would turn to look up at him.

The landscape was all greens and blues and browns and yet Sansa stood like a burrowed flame against the earthy colours. She turned her back to the horse and her head raised, a hand flying up to shield her eyes from the flare of the sun. She broke out into a grin, its warmth meeting him even from three floors higher, and waved him over.

The guard he had posted at her side followed her gaze and gave him a firm nod, turning over his shoulder to whisper an order to the stable master's assistant, most likely telling the blonde haired boy to ready Jon's horse for riding.

By the time Jon slipped on his riding clothes and left his chamber, dodging servants who informed him that the council was anxious to meet and hoping he would not be pulled into conversation, he found his horse saddled and bridled and already beginning to dance with nervousness.

Sansa smiled softly at him, her fingers pulling a comb gently through the mare's long mane. From her normal state of dress she was dressed atypically, shedding her gown and slippers for a pair of woolen breeches and knee length booths, her trousers rolled and folded delicately into the leather at her ankles.

She wore a man's cotton tunic and though she had laced it to her neck it still hung loosely around her shoulders, looking as though one stiff wind could tear it away. For a moment Jon was stunned by it, thinking she looked more like a wildling than even Ygritte had, her crimson hair hanging freely down her back and the steed at her side large enough to be mistaken for a war horse.

He blinked up at her, finding the patterned tunic so familiar to him that he ached to know its origin and only moments later realization dawned upon him and he felt tears sting his eyes. It had once belonged to Robb Stark. The King in the North. His brother.

"I know I should not wear it." Sansa rubbed absently at her arms, as though wishing the tunic would suddenly spring into her brother's arms. "It reminds me of him."

 _I could be your family_. Jon was forced to remember the night before. He could hear his voice saying the words, see himself being the biggest fool in the Seven Kingdoms, staring at her as intently as though he expected her to confess her love to him. He had been drunk, so deep into his cups that he had tried to dive into the harbour in search for mermaidens and had to be fished out by Oberyn and his manservant, who were both struggling to hold in their laughter. But Jon had not lied. At least he knew that Sansa knew that.

The stable boy made to place a stool for Sansa, the wooden platform used to lift herself onto horseback but she waved a hand to forestall him, placing her booted foot into the stirrup and sitting herself easily in the saddle. It had been so fluid a motion that Jon wondered how often she had practiced this.

She so often seemed the Sansa he had once known, so purely Lady Catelyn and Eddard Stark, strong and sharp witted and more well mannered than any member of royalty in the Seven Kingdoms. But the other half- perhaps the most curious half- was different, was strange, was as unfamiliar to him as if she was speaking to him in a foreign tongue.

Winterfell seemed to long ago now, as though it was a different lifetime, the days she had spent watching Jon and Robb play in the yard, sewing delicately at her mother’s side, her eyes wide as she watched Theon strike the wooden sword from Jon’s hand and knock him into the dirt. She had ached to join them. Even then, when he truly had known nothing, he had known that.

Sansa’s horse let out a whiny but Sansa reared him in with a simple tug of the reins, shifting in the saddle until she found a position comfortable enough to sustain her for the duration of the journey. Jon's brow knitted, leaning forward in his saddle to feed his mare a few pieces of broken carrot from his hand, feeling her whiskers against his bare palm.

Ghost’s eyes lifted sharply upon seeing the horse be given a treat when he was offered nothing and he circled the horses, looking suspicious and a bit sassy- which Jon would have seen if he was able to pull his eyes from Sansa for a moment longer.

The red haired woman looked down at the pale creature as he slipped through her horse’s legs and reached out a hand, offering a palm full of berries she had no doubt packed for herself. Jon watched them silently, his eyes finding the two creatures he loved most in the world at his side, and yet they were so wrapped up in each other that neither was paying much attention to him.

"Where shall we ride?" Sansa asked. Jon had no doubts within him that she had seen his pensive expression and was more than thankful when she chose not to comment. He knew she would not have, her honey sweetness rooted to her core.

By the time Jon swung into his saddle his mare was dancing and blowing out her lips with anxiety, cooped up for so long in the stables that it took a few minutes of prancing for her to work the tiredness from her limbs, and as they first set off Jon struggled to keep pace with Sansa, coughing as he waved away the cloud of dirt that rose from beneath her horse’s hooves.

The rush of warm, fresh air seemed to be helping the ache in his head for it had subsided to a dull ache instead of the stabbing pain to which he had barely become accustomed. He laughed as he urged his mare into a gallop and she did just as she was told until he was side by side with Sansa, watching her crimson hair fly backward, loose over her shoulders like a flame coloured curtain.

They quit the stables, Jon leaning forward once again to feed the dark mare a few more pieces of carrot, loudly neighing as she did so. They urged their horses into a gallop, racing like children on the first days of summer, throwing back their heads to laugh and sharing a green apple as though they did not have a responsibility nor care in the world.

It was as though their hesitancy and discomfort had been dissolved by the whip of the wind as it swirled around them and the sheet of warm summer rain that began to fall, so light that they decided they need not to turn back to the castle. Even Ghost, who was usually as averse to rain as he was to bathing, did not seem affected by it, racing at their side and panting loudly, disappearing every few minutes in search of ducks or rabbits or streams to quench his aching thirst.

Hours slipped away like seconds, time flying like the landscape that streaked passed them as they rode. Sansa's skin was slick with rain, glistening like fruit that had been glazed with honey. Her hair dripped beads of water, so wet that it was as dark a red as blood, leaving streaks of wetness across Robb's tunic.

"Shall we stop?" he called over the pounding of his horse's feet against the wet dirt that flew up to spatter him with mud.

He was unsure whether or not she had heard him until she steered towards him, squinting through the rain that was now falling hard enough to dissolve the landscape into a blur of white and gray. But he could see she was smiling. "Shall we s-

Jon felt the horse beneath him give, bucking so suddenly that Jon did not have the opportunity to take control of the reins that he had allowed slip through his fingers. He let out a shout of surprise, the sound loud enough to reach Sansa across the clearing.

He was thrown from the horse's back as the mare bucked again and this time he was not able to balance himself, slipping forward to tumble onto his back, a sharp crag of stone lodging between his shoulders after he had not seen it in time to roll away.

Ghost must have heard his shout for the direwolf was at his side in an instant, the flash of white so bracing and shocking that both he and Sansa let out a yelp, the wolf lying over Jon’s chest in fear for his master. “Get off you mutt.” Jon growled. Suddenly his headache had made a strong resurgence and he could not lift his head nor his arms to push away the pup.

Sansa had thrown herself to his side, thigh high in muddy water, leaning over him. She felt around on his head for bumps before moving down his neck, her cold fingers making him jump. With a whispered apology she continued, making quick work of inspecting him before she lifted him forward so he was able to sit up.

The rain was so heavy that he could not blink away the rain in time to not be blinded by the water and his eyes sting, though he did not stop his search for her. “Jon.” she called. Her breath was icy in the chilled air, letting out a puff of fog with each breath. “Please say something- please. Say you are all right.”

He let out a groan. Her words were too loud and the rain too heavy and Ghost too long since meeting a bath. “You are all right.” He echoed. He knew it was childish and juvenile but his words had their targeted effect and Sansa broke out into a smile, breathing out another puff of fog as she let out a relieved sigh.

“I was so worried.” She said. Her boots sloshed through the mud as she sloshed into it, throwing her arms around him and laying her face on his shoulder. “I thought you had…I don’t think I could have taken it, Jon. Not you too. Not you…”

He left her to her embrace, his hand on the middle of her back to remind her of his presence for it was as though she forgot he was there, pulling away every few seconds to look into his face and ensure he had not fallen into unconsciousness before returning to her tight embrace. "I'm all right, sweet girl." he whispered into her hair, the rush of his warm breath against her ear allocating a shiver. 

When she finally pulled away her cheeks had been blanketed in pink, as though her words had embarrassed her. Sansa folded her hands in her lap and rocked back on her heels, the mare she had ridden nuzzling the back of her shoulder with its lips until Sansa turned to run a hand across her chin, soothing her.

“It must have been the storm.” Jon said, for the dusting of rain had become just that- the strike of lightning vast across the sky and loud enough to make his head feel in danger of being split like a melon. “Damned beast.” He grumbled.

Sansa looked less than convinced, looking down at her hands once more. He raised a hand, ghosting the backs of his fingers across her cheek in a motion so tender and loving that even he was surprised it had come from him. His finger had brushed against the corner of her mouth and suddenly he realized his mistake, rocketed back to the night before when he had felt her lips upon it, soft as two petals of a flower and parted to allow his tongue brush against hers.

Up until that point he was able to pretend her lips were crusty or scarred or anything but the beautiful softness that they were, anything to keep his mind from her and what her lips would feel like.

And now he was looking at her again, sopping wet and shaking like a leaf in the storm, her eyes so wide and blue that he thought perhaps if he were to lean forward he could fall into them and take a swim. He thinks he was a fool to miss the want in her eyes, thinking perhaps he does know nothing, for it is as plain on her face as her eyes or her nose.

“We should return.” She whispered, her bottom lip quivering. He looks at his hand, still lingering on the swell of her jaw before dropping, his skin suddenly feeling as though it had been doused in hot water.

He can feel himself nodding, taking her hand as she helped him to his feet, holding him steady as he feels himself losing balance. She leaned forward to kiss his brow and he knows it is foolish but he could almost feel the pain of his head course away when met with her kiss. “You have a fever.” She said, quite suddenly.

“What?” he asked, thinking he had misheard her.

“Your forehead- it’s too warm.” She said, bringing his hand to feel his own brow before running his index finger across her pillowy lips. True to her words they are both warmer than natural. “It was a trick Septa Mordane taught me.” she continued. “She said the best way to take a temperature was with your lips.”

Jon is glad they were alone then, thinking another man might take advantage of the opening in conversation to lay out words foul enough to make her blush, calling that they knew another place she could place her lips to feel their warmth. He flushed at the thought, almost thankful he was feverish for then she did not have to see his embarrassment.

Sansa helped him into the saddle, walking the horse forward, pushing through the icy rain and sinking ankle deep into the mush of dirt and mud and grass that lay before them. It would be hours before the castle even came into sight. They could not continue on like this.

“You must ride with me.” said he. His horse was nowhere to be found. No doubt she would be found the next day, having wandered into a neighboring village to seek shelter from the thunder. “It is too long a ride to handle by foot.”

She dismissed him immediately, as he knew she would, for he held his counterargument at the ready, “If you do not ride with me I will be forced to walk with you and then we shall both be trudging through this horrible muck.”

Sansa gave him a surreptitious look and then gauged he was being truthful and pulled the mare to a halt, taking Jon’s offered hand and allowing him to pull her into the saddle in a motion so swift and seamless it was as though they were a traveling couple performing for coins in the village square.

She rode at his back, her arms wrapping around his middle to take the reins and grip them a bit too tightly- unwilling to repeat Jon’s earlier fumble and injury. At first she was stiff as a metal rod at his back, her arms held tightly at her sides, her muscles held taut as though she had hardened steel coursing through her veins instead of blood but as the minutes faded into hours she relaxed, her body resting against his, her arms propped limply against his thighs.

He long ago gave up on keeping himself upright and slumped against her, her arms the only thing keeping him rooted to the earth let alone the horse. He even fell asleep for a while, his head lolling backwards against the slope of her shoulder, his face turning to nuzzle against her neck at an angle awkward enough that he knew it would bring him discomfort at a later time but could not care to rearrange himself.

The warmth of their cushioned bodies kept them both from shivering and Jon looked up at her, while pretending to be asleep had the best view of her face from the curve of her lip to the shrewdness of her eyes and the soft rise of her nose. He though that perhaps this injury was the best one he had ever received, for without it he would never have had such a lovely view.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I WAS SO HAPPY THAT LEONARDO WON THE OSCAR THAT I GOT AN ADRENELINE BOOST AND CRANKED OUT THIS CHAPTER AND I THINK IT CAME OUT REALLY, REALLY GOOD WHAT DO YOU GUYS THINK? CLEARLY MY ADRENELINE HAD NOT SUBSIDED BECAUSE I AM STILL USING ALL CAPS.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

Sansa led the horse across the front lawn of the Red Keep. Her feet were frozen stiff, each foot bringing a throb of pins and needles through her legs. Her tunic had gone thin as worn parchment and hung off one of her shoulders, a splatter of mud lying across it like a sash from when the horse had flicked its muddy tail at her.

She shouted and immediately was rounded upon by the stable master and a group of knights, who had, at first, begun to chastise her for evading their protection, but when their gaze shifted to Jon their words shifted to silence. He was lifted from the back of the horse by hands far more deft than hers and carried to his chamber. A voice called out for Samwell Tarly. Something heavy fell around her shoulders and she looked up to find Tyrion’s cloak, reminded of a day he had done the same thing so long ago, in his very castle.

She trailed behind the group of men, walking with Tyrion and hovering awkwardly in the doorway as the knights bustled around him as busy and loud and unsettling as bees in a hive. Ghost paced nervously at her side, yelping and digging his nose into the backside of Sansa’s knee until she kneeled down to pet him, Ghost nearly pushing her over in his nervousness and exhilaration.

Jon had not yet woken, lying on his back with furrowed brow and hallow cheeks. His lips twisted, a moan of pain pulling from them like a whisper. “He will be all right, Sansa.” Tyrion said, looking at the women who had once been his wife. He was not even sure she had heard him, staring off into the distance searchingly. “Sansa…” he reached out to brush his fingers across her hand and she jumped, turning to him as if for the first time realizing he was there.

It seemed she had gone mute, opening her mouth several times before settling on silence. But she saw everything; her eyes flicking to the door just in time to see the door swing open once more and find another person entered the room.

Daenerys entered the room in a swoop of silver and gold and fell into step beside Sansa, taking the other woman’s hand and holding it tightly. Her fingers were icy cold, gripping hers quite tightly, her nervousness showing in the way her teeth worked at her bottom lip.

“How fares he?” asked the queen of Tyrion.

“Feverish but otherwise unharmed. Lady Sansa said that he fell from his horse but Maester Tarly says he has no other injuries.”

Daenerys nodded. “And you, lady?” she asked, turning to Sansa. She placed a hand on the other woman’s forehead, feeling around for signs of warmth or injury.

“I am well.” Sansa whispered. Her voice was hoarse, raw from the scream that had erupted from her when she entered the courtyard. To Daenerys the need to speak became stronger, hoping to find more words to fill the space. Sansa had seemed to morph into stone, only her eyes moving as they flicked from person to person, following the hands that laid upon Jon’s brow to gauge his fever or the fingers that clutched spoons and stirred herbs into of honeyed wine.

Samwell’s fingers were deft as he removed Jon’s tunic, finding a bruise the size of an apple had spread across his back and shoulders, the skin having shaded from yellow to green, edged black in some places. Jon let out a moan as he was rolled onto his side. A damp cloth lay over his brow, the fingers of Jon’s manservant using it to dab away the drops of sweat that rolled down his face. Even with a fire roaring in the grate Jon was shivering, just as he had when rain had poured down upon him and it had been cold enough to turn their breath to fog.

Sansa’s jaw was clenched so tight Tyrion was sure it could be used to strike a knick from a blade. He finally managed to coax her into a chair and she had barely sunk back against the cushion when Jon’s hand fisted in Sam’s tunic, making the room hold its breath.

“Sansa…” he croaked. His voice was dry and hollow, so low that if the room had not frozen in anticipation it would have been drowned out.

All eyes fell to the crimson haired girl and she moved to the side of the bed, her Tully blue eyes steeled. Jon’s hand fell from clutching the cotton tunic to fall into hers, clasping her fingers far too tightly to be comfortable but she did not utter a word of complaint. “I am here.” She whispered to him, sinking into the chair Samwell offered with a small nod of thanks. “Jon...”

The room suddenly seemed far too crowded and Tyrion went to work ridding it of its unused occupants, dismissing servants and butlers until only Daenerys, Sansa, Samwell, and he remained, and even he took his leave after a moment, bowing his head to the queen as he pressed closed the door.

Daenerys and Samwell stood side by side on the far wall, watching the scene before them in silence. The storm continued to rage outside, so loud and fierce that in their panes the glass stretched and creaked with the effort of keeping out the rain. The castle had darkened as though night had fallen, the patter of rain calming enough to make the queen desire to crawl into the bed beside Jon and fall into a deep slumber.

Looking at her husband and nephew Daenerys felt a knife of worry twist in her stomach. Part of her was angry. Jon was foolish to ride in such weather. He should have turned back straight away, as soon as the first drop of water had fallen upon his shoulder. But she knew her anger was only borne from worry and when Samwell cracked his knuckles, a nervous habit, she jumped.

Ghost let out a low howl. He had perched himself at the foot of Jon’s bed, circling and circling before lying on his master’s legs, the weight of his massive body making Jon groan in his sleep. Sansa ran her fingers lazily through his bristly hair and when he let out another moan she let out a soft shush, though not in an aggressive tone but in a soothing one and with one last look at her the direwolf did not howl again.

Daenerys was once again struck with the realization of how truly northern she was. They were.

Sansa finally looked up, meeting the queen’s eyes. If Dany had not been standing flat against the wall she would have taken a step back. She had never seen such raw, terrible sadness as she did in Sansa’s watery blue eyes. “Please…” she whispered. “Please don’t make me go. Please don’t make me leave him.”

“Shhh…” Dany whispered, nodding and offering a weak smile. Walking forth she tucked a wisp of crimson hair behind Sansa’s ear. She met her eyes, “I won’t, sweet girl. I promise. But I need you to take care of him if I am called away. Don’t you and Ghost let anything happen to him.”

Sansa nodded her head in silent assent and turned back to Jon, the hand that gripped hers hard as iron and already beginning to bruise her thin fingers as he squeezed only tighter. But she had not even flinched, not let a beat pass that she showed her discomfort. She is of the north, Dany repeated to herself. Hard and unyielding as ice.

Sansa spent the majority of three days at her cousin’s side, quitting the chamber only to change her clothes and bathe, and only when coaxed. Dany knew she was afraid that as soon as she left Jon would take a turn and leave her alone in this world, so she offered the woman only words of encouragement and softness, prohibiting Maester Tarly to speak any harsh words to her about Jon’s condition, lest he worry her.

When she entered the room that night Sansa was fast asleep at Jon’s side, tucked awkwardly in the chair, her legs folded beneath her, her arms raised to pillow her lolling head. It was almost bird like. Jon’s hand was lying palm up on the feather bed, his fingers twitching as though reaching for her.

“Have I been so blind?” Daenerys whispered, leaning back against the far wall. Lord Oberyn stood at her side, his arms folded across his burly chest, his face set in a grimace that was twin to hers. “How could I have not seen it?”

She had dismissed it all as childhood friendship or familiar civility. All the laughs Jon and Sansa had shared, the looks that had passed between them that had been as charged and electric as lightning. How Jon would rise from his seat across the room and come to stand at Sansa’s side just as she had reached for her empty chalice, Jon’s deft hand moving to refill it.

“Those in love are often blind.” Lord Oberyn replied.

She felt heartsickness twist in her gut like a blow. Jon was not hers. Perhaps he had once been but he would never be again. If she asked it of him Daenerys was sure he would never see his once-sister again. He would descend the aisle with her hand on his arm and watch as Lord Oberyn laid his cloak over her shoulders and led her away, away, away until they reached Winterfell. She knew he would not visit, would not write, would not pretend that her absence was like a hole within his very own heart. But she could not do such a horrid thing. She could not keep apart two souls that had been born to meet and meld together.

Sansa shifted in her sleep and her neck cracked as it fell jarringly forward to rest on her other arm. She had not slept properly in days, so fatigued that even such a painful jerk could not wake her.

Dany turned to ask that Lord Oberyn carry her to her own chambers but found he was already in motion, moving towards her before lifting her gingerly into his arms and spiriting through the door the queen held open.

She was left alone with her almost husband, watching his teeth work into the roll of cloth Samwell Tarly had stuck between his lips after he had bitten his bottom lip bloody, trying to fight in his feverish dreams.

Ghost lifted his head from where it rested on Jon’s chest and looked at her, somehow bearing the same panic-stricken expression Sansa had. He did not even drop his quirked ears when Dany ran her fingers down his belly, as he always did when she did such a motion. The sense of worry was all encompassing it seemed.

Jon red face turned toward Sansa’s empty chair, even in sleep reaching unconsciously toward her and Dany felt another twist in her stomach, a salty tear dripping down her cheek before being hastily wiped away. She must truly have been blind as a bat to miss something so painfully obvious as two fools in love.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen

It was four agonizingly long days that Sansa remained at Jon’s side, watching the way he flinched and recoiled against the medicated wine that was brought to his lips, even in dream spitting out the crude tasting herbs. She and Samwell worked tirelessly for him, wrapping his body with as many heavy blankets and sheets they could find until his face was so red it made a tomato pale in comparison, Jon’s body piled so high with blankets that only a small crescent of his face could be seen.

It was a long and arduous journey, the eighth blanket doing the charm and causing his fever to break quite suddenly in the midst of the night. Samwell’s eyes snapped open at the sound of his friend stirring and he nudged the crimson haired woman awake, both standing over Jon and staring down at him.

Samwell had heard stories of fevers that felt their hosts with permanent damage, turning their brains to mush or their tongues to cotton. His worry that Jon would become one of these mindless dolts increased only daily and doubled by night, his night terrors driving him mad with visions of Jon sitting dumbfounded in a chair before the window, only his eyes able to move.

And yet the man stirred, lifting his head groggily and looking queasy. Jon opened his mouth to speak, to break the silence and prove that the nightmarish disease no longer afflicted Jon, but the only thing that came up was vomit. Sansa had reached for the waste bin but had been too slow, Sam surprising her with reflexes quick enough to both force her chair a few feet across the floor and lift an empty crate to Jon’s lips, catching the majority of the bile.

“He needs to eat.” Samwell said, blinking down at the contents of Jon’s empty stomach. “All he’s had is wine and broth.”

He summoned one of the serving women who flounced about outside the door and the girl disappeared to the kitchens before returning with a large bowl of cream broth and a crust of soft, warm bread. With one look at the food Jon heaved again, causing Samwell to send back the soup at once.

“Jon?” Sansa asked, brushing his sweaty curls from his forehead. She had finally coaxed him back into a lying position and leaned across him to reach for the bread. “Just a bit.” Sansa urged. “Just to settle your belly.” She said. “There is a storm raging in there.”

Jon made to weakly protest but as if on queue his stomach rumbled loudly enough to echo across the chamber, earning Jon a pointed look from Sansa. As if just to placate his worrying companions Jon bit down upon the bread, his jaw working as he chewed. After so many days of fever even such a simple task as that exhausted him and he fell into sleep once more.

“He seems to be passed the worst of it.” Samwell assured, his voice a hoarse whisper. His face was pale and marked with fatigue, the lack of sleep he had had apparent on his face.

“I should inform the queen.” Sansa said. Daenerys had been called away a few hours before by a Northern clan whose lands were being pillaged by slavers. “She’ll-“

“No.” came a wretched voice. Jon was struggling to sit up again, the breadcrumbs on his chest scattering across the floor. “Do not go. Please…come back to me.”

Sansa relinquished the duty to Samwell, who offered to inform the queen of her betrothed’s state, promising that as long as Jon did not begin sprouting blood from his eyes he would live to see another day and could survive without Samwell’s gaze.

“I was so worried, Sans.” Jon whispered. Sansa sunk into her chair and leaned forward to rest her elbows on the edge of his bed. “I thought that…”

“Shhh, sweet boy.” She whispered. Jon’s dark lashes batted against his cheeks as he tried to fight his fatigue and his dark eyes shone bright as dragon glass. His fingers skated across the curve of her jaw, the pad of his thumb pausing very briefly across her bottom lip. “Rest easy now. I won’t leave you tonight I promise.”

“Not just tonight.” Jon said, reaching forward to clasp her hand. She jumped, startled by the force and swiftness of his movements. He looked very deeply into her eyes just then, the muscles in his jaw working. “Not just tonight. It is unfair of me to interfere so fantastically with your plans but please. I cannot bear to let you leave without knowing my true feelings.”

Sansa offered a small smile. “Jon…you must rest now, dearest. You will exhaust yourself just when you were starting to feel better.”

His gaze was hot as flame, a feverish sweat broken over his brow causing his skin to glisten like copper in the flickering firelight. “I love you. Sister or cousin, bastard or prince. I love you.”

The door opened quickly enough to save Sansa from the pressure of answering. She was sure Jon was still feeling the effects of such a tremendous fever. Just last night he had been whispering about how the bees in the yard were trying to steal his honey.

He was to be the King of Westeros. He would make a good King, kind and just and far more generous than any other. His rule would become a dynasty, far eclipsing those of his predecessors. The world would not even remember Joffrey’s name in a few years, his existence just a blip in the history books before King Jon and Queen Daenerys.

Samwell returned with the Queen in tow, both joining Sansa at Jon’s side, their brows creased with worry as they looked down at the man. Just as Sansa had predicted Jon had fallen into a deep sleep, so stoic that it was only the rise and fall of his chest that kept Samwell from shouting in horror at the sight of his dead friend.

After a few more minutes of poking and prodding Sansa slipped from the chamber, hoping she would not be noticed. “Lady Sansa.” Called a voice. She turned to find Lord Tyrion at the end of the hall, making his way towards her. “I had hoped for news of Jon. Pray thee, how does he fare?”

“Well.” Said Sansa. “I am glad to say. His fever has broken and subsided. Maester Tarly says he needs only rest and he will be once more at peak health.”

“I am glad to hear it.” said Tyrion. “He seemed so far away this morning. He tried to grab the sword from my belt, saying something about bees and honey.”

Sansa let out a fond laugh, tiredness clawing at the back of her eyes. “Shall I escort you to your chamber?” she nodded to accept his proposal, slowing her pace to fall into step beside him.

Once at the door to her chamber Tyrion paused, looking down at her with a brow furrowed deep enough to show he was about to speak again. “You love him quite deeply, don’t you?” asked he.

Sansa did not reply, her eyes finding interest in the flecks of the white tile rather than meet his gaze. “He is the only family I have left.” She whispered.

“I think your duties this week have far eclipsed those of a cousin.” Said Tyrion. “I will say nothing more if you do not want me to continue and I am sorry if I have overstepped. I only wish for your happiness. At the very least I owe it to your father.”

“And what would my father say if he was alive to see his only living daughter married to a man once thought to be his bastard son?” she replied.

“He would say that as long as you are happy, as is he. And, my own opinion, I think he would be happy to see his daughter wed the Prince of Westeros.”

Sansa swallowed the lump in her throat. “He is betrothed.” She whispered, her voice hoarse from sadness and fatigue.

Tyrion squeezed her hand lightly. “The Queen loves him very deeply but she is smart enough to recognize love when she sees it. I think she would not keep you apart.”

Sansa gave a half hearted shrug. “Lord Oberyn is a kind man.”

“Indeed.” Agreed Tyrion with a nod. “And should you choose to marry him I will clap as loudly and happily as the rest of the people in the Sept.” he said. “You have lived your whole life according to duty. Do you not think it is time to live your life according to your own happiness?”

And with that he gave the tired girl his leave, bowing and turning on his heel, able to feel Sansa’s eyes upon his back for another few minutes before he heard the click of her door and the shift of her lock sliding into place. He had no doubt that if he were to listen harder he would hear the shift of her mattress as she lay upon it and fell instantly into sleep.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

It was almost two full days before Jon became so antsy that he nearly broke down Sansa’s door in an attempt to reach her. One of her ladies in waiting had approached him the day before to tell him that Sansa was feeling ill and Maester Sam had diagnosed that she need rest. Fearing the worst Jon had instantly wanted to go to her side but the letters on his desk only grew steeper by the day and after his absence the mountain they had created grew high enough to nearly topple.

Jon sat in the throne room with Tyrion, acting as a proxy to face the line of men and women who had scheduled meetings with Daenerys. He sat upon the Iron Throne, hating the thing and wishing he could pull out the swords one by one and offer them to the blacksmith in the city, hoping the man could make something more useful than a metal seat.

After his high fever he was still a bit weak and often had to break from the meetings, seeking sustenance in carafes of fresh water or plates of fruit and cheese. Tyrion was quite patient with him and for that Jon was glad, the Hand of the Queen continuing the meetings without pause whenever Jon ducked out of the room.

Jon eased into the side chamber and pressed his palms against the stone of the wall, feeling the cold seep into his skin in rejuvenation. He could remember the last time he had occupied this room, Sansa’s tear stained face burned into his brain. He was glad Petyr was dead. If Jon had his way he would lift him from the dead only to send him back to one of the Seven Hells again.

Jon closed his eyes and allowed his mind to drift back to the gates of Winterfell. He had awaited Sansa for hours before catching a glimpse of her horse coming over the gates. He had instantly been inflated by the hope that he thought he had long ago lost, pacing with anxiety as he awaited the arrival of her retinue. His stomach had been so completely twisted that he thought he might be sick, his fists clenched so tightly that his fingernails had left an array of crescent moon imprints on his palms.

A part of him had though that even after all this- the letters and the riders and the witnesses that had swore they had seen the last living Lady Stark with their own eyes- that it was not her. He had heard rumors of the girl they had pretended was Lady Arya, a girl Jon would later meet personally and in the deep, dark recesses of his mind would thank the Gods was not Arya. Jeyne Poole, the bride of the Bastard of Bolton. He had been afraid the woman they claimed was Sansa would be no different. After all how many girls in Westeros were born kissed by fire?

As though materialized from Jon’s mind and thin air Sansa ducked through the heavy door. “Jon?” she called.

He had not seen her in days and felt instantly terrible for avoiding his initial thought of breaking down the door to be with her. Her hair was red as ever though her skin had flushed pale and sallow, the marks under her eyes as deep and dark as a blood bruise. He need not ask if she had succumbed to fever for his face clearly showed it. “Do you fare well?”

The thoughts that had occupied his mind were written plainly on his face and, even if they hadn’t, she had always been as easily as a book. “And you?”

“Well rested.” She teased, gesturing to his eyes. “I think I could sleep for a month.”

Another silence stretched between them like ghostly fingers that were grasping for words. “I was never able to thank you for caring for me.” he said. “For staying by my side. I really…”

“Nonsense.” she says, leaving him away. “A hundred knights would have to drag me away fighting and screaming.” She looked at him then, the smile on her face faltering for a brief moment. “I don't think I could ever willingly leave your side.”

Jon reached out to take her hand and felt his fingers close around her thin wrist, lifting it almost unconsciously. His lips pressed gently down upon the tangle of veins at the base of her wrist and moved slowly upwards until he reached her forearm, the crook of her elbow, the swell of soft muscle on her arm, her shoulder, where he turned her and he swept away her hair to place a kiss upon the graceful curve of her neck.

He turned her until she rested in his arms, her head lolling back against his shoulder as she stretched to reveal even more of her thin neck.

She was honey and cream and lemon cakes, tender as a cushioned pillow against his mouth, his tongue daring to reach out and loll against her soft ear lobe. She let out a little moan, so light that it was just a hair deeper than a breath, and his arms stiffened, the sound replaying in his ears like an echo.

“I want to marry you.” Jon whispered, her head resting against his shoulder, the arms he had wrapped around her middle feeling an increased in weight and warmth as she laid hers upon them. “I want to marry you and take you back to Winterfell and love you every single day until the Gods breaks us apart. And even then I will find you, whether or not I have to go through the Seven hells or heavens to do it.” he said, his hot breath dancing across her cheek and making a sheet of gooseflesh run down her body from toe to finger.

She turned to face him, taking a step that surprised him into walking backwards into the wall, the crag of stone digging into his back. Her hand brushed against his cheek and his lips until her lips replaced her fingers and their mouths met in a kiss.

“I want the same.” She said, her lips making a small puckering sound as she pulled away. “I want it with you. All of it.”

“I’ve wanted you for so long.” He whispered, kissing her as often as he could for even a hundred thousand kisses was not enough. “I love you.”

She smiled up at him, her hands knotting and hanging at his waist, their tightness enough to drive his tunic up a bit so that her warm skin brushed against his, the contact blissful torture. “I love you.” She returned, standing on the very tips of her toes to kiss him again.


End file.
